


The Lineaments of Love

by Minx_DeLovely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, F/M, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26792878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minx_DeLovely/pseuds/Minx_DeLovely
Summary: She took his hand—he’d been wanting the friction another person could give. Not the tender kind Molly had on offer, but something violent and mutually destructive. Without warning, he pulled her against him and she hugged him tight. It felt correct—like facts slotting into place to lead to a conclusion. She still didn’t know—had no idea what he was thinking. He hardly knew himself. In her quiet way, she could always see through him and sometimes he let her. When he felt like he did that moment, he was deeply inclined to let her. Gentle Molly, sweet Molly, never looked more dangerous to him. He thought of the blows she’d landed on his cheek when he’d come to her strung out.At that instant he decided he would have her, if she would have him.A story told in three parts.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 73
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

PART ONE

Lately, crime was just boring.  
No transgression had been dangerous enough or elaborate enough or clever enough to engross his mind. The details all laid themselves out too quickly, it was all too easy to solve. The last three hadn’t even necessitated he leave the flat. Worse, there was money involved, so he had to worry about those things, receipts and bank accounts and boring, boring details John used to take care of before he went and created a life for himself. There were always old crimes, but without the imminent threat of harm, he couldn’t keep himself engaged. He needed something to get his blood pumping. Something dangerous.

Sherlock sat by his cold fireplace, with a gun in his hand. Absently, he loaded and unloaded the revolver.  
There was no specific reason, no inciting incident, nothing that should have made it so critical except it was--suddenly and overwhelmingly he couldn’t stand his isolation anymore. If he went out there would be someone around who would want to hurt him—at least someone willing to try.  
Sherlock Holmes got up from his chair. He put on his coat and scarf and went out looking for a body with which to collide.  
Just as he was about to hail a cab to take him someplace more chaotic than his own mind, he got a text from Lestrade to come to the morgue.  
Perhaps that would provide some distraction.

***

Serial killers were boring. They thought they were interesting, with their clues and their sadism, but they were always empty on the inside. Their rituals and crimes might have been mildly compelling, but as people they were a waste of his time.  
Molly stood a few feet to the side as he and Lestrade looked at the body on her table; a woman who’d been employed as a sex worker. He knew this woman—Corinna Mabel, mother of two, a relapsed addict. She’d helped him identify a suspect once because of the type of car he drove. Her father had been a mechanic and she’d a keen memory for cars. She had a good mind and a quick wit. It angered him to see her on the slab. Sherlock walked around her. Bruises on her wrist, red synthetic nails, one torn off. She’d fought very, very hard. He nearly brushed her hair away from her cold forehead, then stopped himself.

“The killer is named Lindsay Talbott. He went to secondary school with her and cyber-stalked her for two years, but was never punished for that. He was convicted of assaulting a different girl at his school and was released from prison two months ago. This is the escalation. He sought Corinna out, knowing her current work would make her vulnerable. Pick him up before he does it again. If you move fast, you’ll find her fingernail in his car, or hopefully, wedged somewhere on his person.”

“How?” Lestrade asked.

“I remember. I remember her. Also, the defensive wounds, her reluctance to get in the vehicle with him as stated by the witness. She knew and feared him. Primal fear—she reacted as one might to the bogeyman. He was her bogeyman, for years, but no one listens to girls whose feet stray from the path, do they? Except for me. Lucky you.”

He resented all the people who’d dismissed Corinna’s fears over the years because of her addiction and her work. Sherlock marched out of the white room, his footsteps echoing loudly. Someone followed after him into the dark hallway and grabbed the crook of his elbow with her small hand. He whirled around to see Molly Hooper standing in front of him.

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

“Nothing suits. I’m bored.”

“You didn’t look bored in there. You looked angry.”

“I can be both.”

Her hair was pulled back, and under her lab coat she wore a dark green blouse with what initially looked like Swiss dot, but was actually kitten paw prints. It was patently ridiculous. Molly Hooper, running at cliché with gusto. When a young woman went for quirky dress, it could’ve been seen as endearing, but Dr. Hooper was well past that age—she just looked like someone who’d given up on sexual fulfillment and human companionship entirely to embrace the uncomplicated comforts of pet ownership.  
He was about to tell her that, when the irony struck him. Molly had been engaged less than seven months ago to a younger man and they’d been quite passionate from her own account, whereas he sublimated sexuality and intimacy with drugs and violence. His own deduction wasn’t accurate. Molly was carnal—she’d tasted darkness, and dealt in death. She knew a body inside and out.

She stared at him.

“My shift’s almost over. Come home with me,” she said.

“That’s bold, Molly. I wouldn’t thought you capable—”

“It isn’t like that. I don’t think you should be by yourself tonight. We could watch a film, or play cards.”

“I don’t do either of those things.”

She shook her head. “Then you can sit with me and ridicule my furniture, like last time. You promised me a favor once—I’m asking. Come home with me tonight.”  
In return for helping him fake his death, he’d promised her a favor of equal value. He expected her to ask him to rig the lottery in her favor, or have a person killed. It was a capital F favor, and there she was, content to waste it so she could spend the night on her own poorly-constructed couch. He shook his head.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I don’t think I’ll see you again if you don’t come home with me tonight.” She took his hand—he’d been wanting the friction another person could give. Not the tender kind Molly had on offer, but something violent and mutually destructive. Without warning, he pulled her against him and she hugged him tight. It felt correct—like facts slotting into place to lead to a conclusion. She still didn’t know—had no idea what he was thinking. He hardly knew himself. In her quiet way, she could always see through him and sometimes he let her. When he felt like he did that moment, he was deeply inclined to let her. Gentle Molly, sweet Molly, never looked more dangerous to him. He thought of the blows she’d landed on his cheek when he’d come to her strung out.  
At that instant he decided he would have her, if she would have him.

Through silence he acquiesced to going home with her. She finished her work. He went to the men’s room and bought condoms from the machine there. Lestrade was gone when he got back, presumably to arrest the murderer. Together he and Molly went out into the night. He hailed a cab for them, because he didn’t want to bother with the tube, and he paid, despite her protests.

They went up to her flat.

Her place smelled like books and lemon floor cleaner, which he found very comforting. She was compulsively clean; she’d admitted to him once it was because of her work. Scrubbing kept death at arm’s length. In addition to that heavily superstitious application of science, she said that if she was ever found dead alone, she didn’t want anyone to have to go through additional bother. He told her he’d structured his whole life to cause others additional bother. It had been funny then.  
She took her coat off and hung it by the door. He followed her lead, toeing out of his shoes when he saw she did the same. Naturally she did—she wouldn’t want to track in particles from the morgue.

Molly went into her kitchen and he followed—a dog on a lead. “I can make tea, if you’d like.”

She smiled at him, a little nervous. He grabbed her by the waist and the smile collapsed into a look of alarm. He hoped she wouldn’t stop him or make him talk about it—he dragged her close and kissed her mouth, which had opened in surprise. For a terrible beat she didn’t respond and he worried he’d destroyed everything. Then she kissed him back with tongue and teeth and quickened breath. She untucked his shirt and gently began undoing the buttons. In his urgency, he ripped her shirt open, sending the fasteners careening like shrapnel. Her breath caught. This was moving too fast and he’d potentially frightened her. None of that had been his intention.

He gentled down his kisses and let her run her hands over his body. She finished taking off his shirt and couldn’t keep her eyes off of him. It was good that she stared that way—he was something she wanted, enough to push her doubts away. Her bra was a scrap of lace, and he ran his thumb over her nipple. She shook. He bent down and sucked it through the material. She whimpered and when he grazed it with his teeth, she moaned.

“You can,” she said. “Please, you can be rough.”

Her words trilled down his spine. He peeled the bra off over her head, whipping her long hair. He lathed her breasts, making her keen, and moved up to her neck, leaving a mark on her throat. She undid her trousers and took down her panties with them. She was naked, aside from a pair of pink knee socks. There was down on her upper thighs and hair under her arms—she hadn’t shaved in anticipation for this. Molly hadn’t planned to get naked in front of him or anyone, hadn’t for weeks. It made what they were doing feel dirtier and more intimate. He liked her this way—unstudied, overwhelmed and willing.

He lifted her onto the kitchen table. She kissed his neck and used her teeth, the way he had. He moaned to let her know he liked it, that she was moving in the direction he wanted. Her short nails bit into his nipples. He wanted her to leave bruises, but stopped short of saying. She seemed to read his responses, and gave him more. She raked her short nails down his sides.  
From his pocket he took out a condom. Molly started at the sight.

“You have that—you brought it with you?”

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what does it matter?”

It mattered to her—of course it did. She would see it as proof this wasn’t special or spontaneous on his part, but something of a foregone conclusion. She’d assume he’d gone out with the intention of having someone, it just happened to be her. That was fine—throw her off his true thoughts. She spread her legs anyway, looking up at him with her huge, mournful eyes. If he cared to notice, he could already tell she was separating from him, steeling part of herself away. Good. That would make it easier later.

Gently, he traced the lines of her pussy—she was already wet. Her reproachful eyes fell shut when he touched her that way, so he went further. He slid his fingers inside her, and rubbed her clit with his thumb. Her hips rose from the table. He moved faster and was going to ask her how she liked it, but it was plain to see she did. It was only a matter of time before she finished, then her regret would flood in and stymie the rest of his plans.

He withdrew from her. She moaned.

He took his penis out and unrolled the condom onto his length. He guided himself inside of her. She held onto his shoulders tight, her body clamped around him. It felt unreal, so good he couldn’t think. This was the ideal situation—not thinking, just feeling. Obliteration and helplessness would follow.

“Lay flat,” he said.

She laid back for him. He touched the flat drum of her stomach, the dip of her belly button. He kept his thumb in play on her clit, and rammed into her. At first, he used her rhythm, the one he’d set with his hands, until she came undone underneath him. He could feel the suck and pull of her as the climax went through her body. Then he sped up, until he spent inside of her.  
The fireworks exploded behind his eyes and then the flood of chemicals, gorgeous chemicals she helped produce in his brain. He slid out of her while he was still hard, so the condom wouldn’t leak. He took off the rubber, tucked his cock back in his trousers and zipped up. For one indelicate moment, he searched for her garbage can.

“Under the sink,” Molly said.

“I knew that.”

He threw the condom away, wondering why he had to lie to her so quickly after she’d given her body to him. When he turned back around, she’d already begun collecting her clothes. Her shirt had been ruined in his haste, and so had her bralette. The lace had torn and stretched. She held the garments to her chest, a refugee from their sexual encounter. He scooped his shirt off the ground.

“Let go of these.” He plucked her clothes from her hand.

“Sherlock?”

He shook out his shirt, and draped it over her shoulders. She put her arms through, questions behind her eyes and a small smile on her mouth. He buttoned the buttons for her.

“What was that?” she asked.

He smoothed the points of his collar down against her clavicle. “Necessary.”

“I didn’t think you were interested.”

“In sex? It’s a periodic vice, one I don’t like to admit to.”

“I meant interested in me.” She slid off the table.

He caught her by the shoulders.

“You’re what I needed.”

She looked down. “I was convenient, wasn’t I? It didn’t mean anything more. It was just a release.” She seemed to be speaking more to herself than to him, talking herself into accepting the rejection she anticipated.

He told himself that was good, because now was the time to leave her and set up a bright line which neither of them would cross again. He’d described what they’d just done as a vice, which equated Molly’s body with street drugs or a gallon of Scotch. It was good to hurt her now, so she wouldn’t expect anything. He could still count on her door opening if he needed her again. Her door was forever open to him, she could be hurt innumerable times, because she was Molly Hooper and he was Sherlock Holmes, and no matter how badly he scarred the land there would always be fruit.  
Except the thought of that twisted his stomach and he could see John’s face, filled with disgust, and see Molly’s face at Christmas, when he’d humiliated her.   
He tilted her chin up with his hand.

“You weren’t convenient—you were better. You were right.” He folded her in his arms. “Can I stay tonight?”

She kissed him as her way of showing him he could. They went to her bedroom. He took off his clothes, still hungry to be touched. Together they got in bed. She ran her hands over his hips, the back of his legs. She placed kisses on his stomach and up to his chest. He took her ponytail out, spreading her hair out over him.  
They kissed like teenagers. It was shameful how much he liked kissing her. But he didn’t want to stop the thrilling and terrifying sensation. When Molly kissed him, he was not bored.

***

Molly hadn’t expected him to be there in the morning. He’d never been there in the morning on the other nights he’d displaced her from her bed. She just assumed he turned into a bat at dawn and flew out the window.

It was a marvel to see him naked in the sunlight. He wasn’t a creature made for daytime. The natural light brought out all the fine blue veins threaded through his body. His skin glowed like the white flame created by burning magnesium sulfate. She thought he’d appreciate being compared to a chemistry experiment.  
Molly kissed his forehead, and he opened his eyes. He looked at her and everything she wanted to say evaporated. He stared into her face, his own a blank. Slowly, he traced her jaw with his fingertip.

“Thank you.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

“Do you want breakfast?”

He inhaled sharply. “No. I’m already late for an appointment.”

Without further ceremony, he sat up, then dressed hurriedly. She sat up, too, suddenly embarrassed of her nakedness and her unshaved legs.

“What should I do when I see you?” she asked.

He was bent over, pulling on his socks. At her question, he stopped and stood up. “Act normal. Know I’m grateful. We won’t repeat this.”

“What if I wanted to?”

He snatched his shirt from the floor. “I can’t be your boyfriend. Before you assume something terrible about yourself or your merits as a lover, understand I can’t be anyone’s boyfriend.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

He looked at her again, the same way he had when he first woke up. “This was a lapse on my part. You saved me from disaster, but it was still a lapse. No matter how good it was, we shouldn’t do it again.”

He finished putting on his shirt and she tried to process what he’d just said. The never again part registered, but not the good part. She didn’t want to get out of bed in front of him, exposing herself again, but she understood he was trying very hard to be kind. When he finished getting dressed, he came back to her and sat down. He kissed her again, not a goodbye kiss but something else—a last kiss, as though he was trying to remember every bit. She wished he would just go instead of drawing out the moment. It was clear he didn’t want to go, and she didn’t want him to leave—but he would anyway. The kiss only made her pain more exquisite.

***

The next day, he came into the morgue with John. Aside from the usual hello, he paid no special attention to her, which was expected and fine. It didn’t hurt to see him like she thought it would. It felt—heightened, that was all. She felt extremely aware of his presence for the entirety of the visit. Molly never had a one-night stand before, but she was confident she could be mature. She’d go out for drinks with Meena on Friday and tell her about her adventure. Meena would probably say something supportive but have that worried look on her face, like she did every time Molly brought up Sherlock. It would all be just another thing that happened, added to the pile of strange things that seemed to happen since she befriended Sherlock Holmes.  
The part that sent a splinter through her heart was after he left. She discovered a book of cat-themed postcards by the artist Louis Wain in her top desk drawer. On the inside cover he’d written, “This silly, little thing made me think of you. W.S.S.H.”

He’d contrived a reason to go into her office, some nonsense about equipment and she’d wanted to limit their interaction, so she let him without further discussion. It was clear he’d gone in there just to hide a present for her, something pretty she would like, something he wouldn’t have approved of, but bought because she would.  
They didn’t exchange presents—not after that terrible Christmas.  
Whatever he’d said, whatever he’d convinced himself of, she held proof in her hand that he had some kind of feelings concerning her. She tried not to hope, but it came the way buds killed by frost open, fooled into blooming by one warm night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish I were your mirror  
> so that you always looked at me.  
> I wish I were your garment  
> so that you would always wear me.  
> I wish I were the water that washes your body.  
> I wish I were the unguent, O Woman,  
> that I could anoint you.  
> And the band around your breasts,  
> and the beads around your neck.  
> I wish I were your sandal  
> that you would step on me.  
> – Papyrus Anakreon: K. Preisendanz, Anacreon

Molly had just finished pulling second shift at the morgue. The hours were dismal, wreaking havoc on her body and crushing her social life. Her Friday drinks with Meena fell by the wayside. Molly couldn’t complain, though--she’d volunteered for the shift because her colleague was pregnant and on bedrest. She wanted to help Sadie wherever she could—she’d already agreed to be the child’s godmother. That would make her godmother to three children including Rosie and her cousin Opal’s daughter. Molly joked that she could get a punch card from the church; when she hit five, she’d win a pair of fairy wings.

It had been a month since Sherlock gave her the book, and their interactions had been normal since then—normal for him. He didn’t give her any more presents, or touch her or offer to explain his “lapse” with her. They talked about cases and their goddaughter. It was nice to see that human spark when he discussed Rosie. The few times they had lunch together, John joined them. She decided to write the gift off as an expression of his gratitude for spending the night with him when he needed a friend, and bury whatever hope she might have had that it meant more.  
When she got to her apartment, she ate a cup of yogurt while sitting on the kitchen counter. She couldn’t really stand to eat on the table anymore, it felt a little too raw still. She’d washed the surface four dozen times and bought a prim, white, lace tablecloth to make it look different. Somehow, nothing seemed to help. She couldn’t stop picturing what she and Sherlock had done on top of it.

After she finished her yogurt and washed the spoon, she decided a bubble bath was in order. Molly went into her bathroom. As she filled up the tub with hot water and suds, deliberating about lighting candles because it seemed too much like something that would happen in a mid-nineties Celine Dion video, thunder crackled overhead. It sounded terribly close. All of the lights in her apartment went out, plunging her into darkness.

“Candles then,” she mumbled to herself.

She lit a few pillars and placed them around the sink. Molly took off her clothes and sank into the tub. Not so much sank, as sat with her knees, elbows and tits sticking out of the water. That was when Molly remembered that at her new apartment, baths were terrible without the claw-footed tub. It was so cold her nipples started to hurt, so she nixed the bath, finished scrubbing up quickly and then washed her hair. Just as she rinsed out the last of the soap, she heard pounding coming from her bedroom.

Molly didn’t believe in ghosts, but she did believe in murderers. She slid her phone out of the pocket of her sweater, which lay on the bathroom floor and was about to dial 999, when she heard a familiar voice shouting her name.

“Molly Hooper—I know you’re home, open your window,” Sherlock yelled.

Molly wrapped a towel around herself and marched angrily into her bedroom. Sherlock Holmes was on the other side of her window, staring in. He trained a torch on her, blinding her momentarily. Despite her better judgement, she went over to the window and opened it for him. He’d clambered up her slick, metal fire escape and she was terrified he’d fall to his death.

“I have a door you can use, and a mobile you can call.”

He didn’t answer her, he just climbed inside the room, making sure to close and lock the window behind him. The look on his face made her frightened, because he looked frightened.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I need you.” He grabbed the sides of her face and kissed her. Despite herself, she returned the kiss, until he unraveled the towel she’d wrapped around her chest.

Molly grabbed the towel and held it loosely to her.

“Stop—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

He looked at her, his face blue and silver in the dark. “What do you need me to do?”

“Not this.” She tried to tie the towel again.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

“No…but you need to call first. Don’t come in like a prowler through the window.”

“I can do that. May I kiss you again?”

He relented so quickly, she wished she’d asked for more.

“Okay.”

He pulled her into another embrace. She began taking off his wet clothes. He covered her shoulders with his damp hands to steady himself while she peeled the soaking garments from his body. He let her strip everything off without explaining himself. She checked his body for injuries, her hand lingering on the scar from his gunshot. Finding none, she unfurled her towel and dried his hair with it. Then she led him to her bed.

He lied down under her covers and she got in next to him. The way he touched her was different than before. His hands were gentle and caressing on her breasts, down her body. His kisses went up and down her neck, all around her shoulders and her lips. Time got slippery and slow as his teasing stretched on.  
She couldn’t take his delicacy any longer and voyaged underneath the blankets herself. His cock leapt at her touch. She gripped the base and swallowed around his erection. His hips bucked up to meet the downward swoop of her mouth and he moaned her name. 

She let him gag her with his cock, let him grip a handful of her hair while his thrusts got sloppy. It didn’t take him long to lose control. She let him come because it felt so good to please him. After he finished and she swallowed, she wasn’t sure what he’d do next. The whole night had been so strange, she worried he’d get up and leave. With a touch of apprehension, she came up for air, poking her head out of the top of the covers.

He snatched her into his arms and kissed her deeply.

“I love tasting myself in your mouth,” he said against her ear.

She couldn’t believe he’d said it or that he meant it but, he kept delving back for more kisses. He put his hand between her legs, bringing her off so fast and so hard, her vision flashed white. After the popped confetti of her orgasm, the pleasure spread out to languor and she realized he’d used the word love when he was in bed with her.  
She rolled on top of him, giving him slow, deep kisses. His cock was hard again; he liked seeing her come. She took a condom out of the drawer beside her bed—she’d bought a box out of a slim hope that he’d return. He didn’t balk when she opened the package and unrolled it on his erection. He grabbed her hips and guided her down on top of him. Molly liked that he let her take the lead. She rode him, touching herself, until she came again. Her orgasm wrung another from him. When his moans tapered, she slid off of him.

“The garbage can is under the table,” she said.

“I knew that.”

She enjoyed seeing him fumble the rubber off. There wasn’t a dignified way to do such a thing, and she liked how vulnerable and awkward he looked. He glanced at her while he tied off the end, and exchanged a smile with her that made her want to kiss him. After he threw away the trash, she cuddled against his shoulder. Lazily, she ran her hand along his stomach.  
He stared dumbly at the ceiling, petting her arm. For the length of time he stared, he might have gone into his mind, wandering through his thoughts. She wasn’t bothered by his silences. She stroked him with gentle fingers, the dips and swells of his chest, the edge of his hip, the long line of his throat. All the while, he held her elbow lightly or covered her hand with his own, silently encouraging her.

“Would you hurt me, Molly?” he whispered.

“Never. I’d never hurt you.”

“I mean, if I asked you to.” He bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, seeming to brace himself for her rejection.

Molly knew she should have been more surprised by his request, but she wasn’t. She’d heard it before, but the other way round. Being a nice, quiet girl, she didn’t just attract sociopaths. There were men who read her cues and hoped she’d be submissive. There were others who just assumed. The idea hadn’t interested her before but none of them had wanted her to take control. That part, she found very intriguing.

“Have I shocked you?” he asked.

“No.” She touched his scar from the bullet wound and his breath quickened. She knew the spot was still sore, even months and months later. Still, she pressed down. He gasped, and she could feel him start to get hard against her leg, which was wrapped around his waist.

“I would, but you have to do something for me.”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to treat me like a person, not a vice. I know you don’t want to be my boyfriend, but you need to call me before you come over.”

“Any other demands?” His tone was arch and condescending, but he looked ashamed.

“I’d like to see you regularly, not just whenever the mood strikes. I want you to cancel beforehand when you can’t see me. Don’t leave me waiting. If we do this, you can’t have sex with anyone else, and you can’t shoot up. I want you clean.”

“I can do those things, easily. In return I ask you to keep our arrangement secret.”

“Of course. I’m used to keeping your secrets.”

Just as she spoke all the lights in Molly’s apartment came back on, startling them both.

***

Molly stood at the stove wearing her bathrobe. Sherlock’s clothes were still wet, so she lent him a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He had a sneaking suspicion, due to the length, that they’d belonged to Tom. It made him proud that the shirt was slightly tight in the shoulders.  
He watched her frying up potatoes and making sure the pan of beans didn’t burn. Her hair was in quite a state, which he rather enjoyed. She’d pulled it into a messy bun to cook and he could see the slope of her neck. It felt normal to sit at her table. This is what ordinary people probably did. The sight of her making him a very, very early breakfast soothed his racing mind.  
She stirred the potatoes with a hot pink spatula. “How do you want to do this—” she struggled to find her words and for once he didn’t have them at the ready. “Meet-up? I’m off Tuesdays and the only standing appointment I have is watching Rosie so John and Mary can go do their pub quiz.”

“It’s idiotic they never invite me.”

“You’re brilliant, but you don’t know anything about pop culture.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Who played Harry Potter?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Who wrote Moby Dick?”

He sighed. “Aside from the elaborate descriptions of aquatic life existing in the 19th Century, that book is overrated.”

“Who wrote it, though?” She held the spatula up like a conductor.

He crossed his legs. “Tuesdays then. I’ll pass you a note with the location and time of our meeting. You tell no one, not even Meena. If I’m unable to make the appointment, I’ll text you a code—I’ll text that I left my pipette at the lab and you need to bring it back to me. Then I’ll communicate my next available time.”

“Sure.”

He could tell she was smiling by the way she spoke. It was only slightly infuriating. Molly didn’t know the danger in being important to him. Despite his best efforts, she was that—important to him.

“I’ll place the note in the top drawer of your desk at Bart’s.”

“Thank you for the book of postcards, by the way. I framed the cat with the monocle and put it by the front door—you probably haven’t had a chance to see it since you came in through the window.”  
For a moment his throat went dry, and he couldn’t speak. After their first night, he hadn’t been able to stop replaying everything that had happened in his mind. The book had been a moment of weakness—he’d been too ashamed to buy it, so he’d slipped it into his pocket and hugely overpaid for a tin of mints instead.

“Don’t expect gifts every time.”

“I’m not—you’re present enough, aren’t you?”

The way she said it made him ever so slightly hard again. It got worse when he imagined giving himself to her, an object for her use.  
She went over to the counter and took eggs out of the carton there. The way she cracked them on the rim of the bowl, one solid, sure blow each did nothing to remedy his problem. She whipped the eggs with a spatula that also had a hot pink handle. It wasn’t objectively erotic, yet he couldn’t stop his pulse rate from increasing.

“I know how to bind you without damaging you, but we would need good equipment. You’ll have equipment at the space, or should I bring?”

“The space will be fitted for purpose.” He hadn’t thought of where they could meet, and he had no equipment aside from a riding crop that he’d used to beat corpses. He wanted something…fresher for himself. He’d have to go shopping. Then something she’d said struck him. “Do you have bondage equipment, Dr. Hooper?”

“No, I told you. I’ve never done this before. I’ve got a little, pink flogger that Meena gave me for an engagement present, but it’s still in the package.” She held the egg bowl against her and tried to smile, but there was something dark around the edges.

“It made Tom angry when he saw it, so you hid it in the back of the closet.”

“You must be Sherlock Holmes.”

He hardly knew what he was doing, but he stood up and took the bowl out of her hand. He set it on the counter. Then he held her against him and kissed her. They got a little lost in each other until one of the pans on the stove started to smoke.

Molly threw the beans in the sink and rinsed it in cold water.

“What is it with you and my kitchen?” She let out a shaky laugh.

He nearly told her the truth—she was often in her kitchen, which gave it all the appeal. Instead he kissed her cheek.

“I should go.”

“But I’ve made so much breakfast.”

He kissed her forehead. “Until Tuesday.”

***  
It was good because when he left, she saw him to the door, and she didn’t feel used and they’d made plans to see one another again—albeit strangely. After she put the food away and cleaned the kitchen, she’d slept until her shift, then gone into work with a certain lightness of step. Molly went into her office and opened her desk drawer as soon as she was settled. There she found a necklace box. Inside was a key with the address printed on the lid.

For the rest of the week, he was polite to her whenever he came in, but paid her no special attention. On Saturday, they’d had lunch, but John came along. In fact, John was the one who insisted they eat together, while Sherlock played on his phone for the duration of the meal. The only betrayal of possible emotion came after she and John had finished talking and they were on their way out. Sherlock looked at her, right in the eye, and gave her a smile that made her blush. It was purely sexual, and she immediately covered her cheeks with her hands. Sherlock laughed, which caught John’s attention. He assumed Sherlock had said something unkind, and patted her shoulder.

Molly didn’t want to go into their tryst unprepared, so in her free time she began watching pornography with the same attention to detail she’d paid to studying for her medical exams. It gave her ideas of what she could do for him, and made her more eager to try than she could have ever imagined before. She also watched instructional videos for beginners, and took notes in a spiral notebook with a picture of a kitten on the front. If Sherlock could have seen her in her reading glasses, peering intently at Nina Hartley videos with pen poised, he certainly would have laughed.  
Even though he insisted everything would be provided, she made up a first aid kit that fit in her purse and included a pair of heavy duty, sharp scissors, in case she needed to cut him free. Molly didn’t feel safe enough using rope on him. She’d never been particularly outdoorsy and had tied her shoes until she was eight by making two loops and knotting them. She decided if rope was the only option, she’d just boss him into holding still.

When Tuesday finally came, she decided to dress as if it were a first date with someone she’d met online—something to set low expectations, an outfit she wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in riding the tube home alone later. Afterall, right afterward she had to babysit Rosie. Molly dressed in a pink, pleated skirt that went past her knee, a vintage white ESPIRIT t-shirt, pink flats and her long, beige coat. He would hate her outfit, just like he hated all her outfits. She probably should have put on a black dress or bought something leather, but it would have eroded her confidence even further to try and play a part.

The address was in Belgravia, in one of the gorgeous, terraced houses. Molly felt under-dressed when just being on the street. She unlocked the door with the key he’d given her and went into the entryway. Inside, the place exuded a dark sexuality, which was something she didn’t think wallpaper and chairs could do up until then. The black and silver pattern on the walls would have made the space claustrophobic if it wasn’t so large. The Persian rugs were lush and tasteful, providing spots of color in reds and blues. She locked the door behind her. When she turned around, she wasn’t sure if she should call his name, or text him, or walk back out.

As she stood there thinking, Sherlock stepped into the entryway from one of the other first floor rooms.

“Hi,” Molly waved.

“Hello.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, standing at attention.

Her nerves kept her from moving. He took a step toward her, smiling shyly at her. She moved closer. In three quick steps, they were in each other’s arms. Molly kissed him softly, on tiptoe. He moaned against her mouth, keeping his hands clasped.

Molly ran her hand down his arm and took hold of his wrist. “Show me the upstairs.”

He led her up the stairway.

“What is this place?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Do you own it?”

“No.”

They made it to the top of the staircase and went down the hall. “Are you renting?”

“It’s on loan. We won’t be bothered, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I was, just a bit.” She smiled.

“This is the last place we’ll be found. There’s no CCTV cameras and a secret entrance. You’ll leave out the front, like you came. I’ll leave out the back. No one will know we were together.”

She wondered how he could find such a place on short notice, and thought briefly of Irene Adler. In her studies, she’d found Adler. Molly smoothed her hair back, and tried not to wonder if Sherlock had been there with Irene.

He opened the door to a capacious bedroom papered in black with silver filigree. There were long, thin windows along the back wall, hung with black drapes. The bed had a black canopy and matching comforter turned down to reveal snowy white sheets. In the corner stood an Edwardian-style chair in silver and black. There was a doorway leading to another room and Molly noticed that there were two big eye bolts embedded in the frame, perfect for attaching a set of handcuffs. With the ominous color choices and the opulence on display, it was just the sort of place she pictured when he told her they were to meet in secret.

He closed the door behind her as she stepped inside.

“Where are my tools?”

The question seemed to take him off guard, and his arrogance faltered. “The bed. I’ve laid them out for you.”

She went over to the bed. In a neat row on the bed he’d arranged a black riding crop, a black, leather flogger and a metal device that looked like it came from her mother’s sewing kit. Molly picked it up and examined the item. It resembled a tiny spur. She heard his footsteps, and could feel him standing behind her. “Wartenberg Wheel?”

“You’re familiar?”

“Doctors don’t really use them anymore. I could draw blood with this.”

“I know.”

“Are you giving me permission to draw blood?” She turned to find him very close to her.

He nodded.

“You need to say everything I’m allowed to do before we begin.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t—you can say that when we start, but beforehand you need to be honest.” She moved the crop and the flogger off the bed and laid down, then patted the mattress. “Talk to me.”  
He complied, with a scowl on his face. She wrapped her arms around him and they lied together in all of their clothes. His body was stiff; he wouldn’t mold to her the way he had when they were in her apartment.

“What do you want me to do to you?” she asked.

“Anything you want.”

“I could cut you, or burn you or let strangers come in here and molest you. You’d be pleased with that?”

“Much worse has been done to me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Molly, it’s clear you’re too frightened. Let’s forget this.”

He pulled away from her and began to sit up. Molly felt sick to her stomach. “That’s not true. Do you want to share yourself with me or not?”

“It’s just conveyance—that’s all you’re getting in this exchange. Not me. My body is nothing. Meaningless.” His voice rose and she tried not to flinch away.

“Sherlock. At least give me a safe word.”

He picked up the riding crop and the flogger, collecting his toys to go home.

“If you make me do it, I’ll give you a stupid one.” Molly sat upright. “That’s it—sparkles. Your safe word is sparkles. Don’t take another step toward that door.”  
He froze, mid-step and glared at her. She scooted off the bed.

“Why won’t you talk to me about this?” Angrily, she took her coat off and threw it on the bed.

“Because if you knew what you were doing, it wouldn’t be necessary. If you had any confidence or self-respect you would have already figured out what you’re supposed to do. This whole exercise was pointless—to think that you could. Pathetic.”

“If you leave now in a huff without talking it through, I’m not letting you back in my apartment again. You’ll have to go to John and have him patch you up. And if you come again, I’ll call him and tell him how you’ve been hurting yourself.”

He grew paler. “Do you really think I can’t resist you? I was able to control myself for fifteen years. I turned down The Woman—she toppled governments with her body, with her mind. Do you honestly think you compare?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve struck a nerve?” He smirked.

Something he’d said did strike a nerve, not in the way he thought. Molly smiled at him—a smile that seemed to unnerve him by the way his smirk dropped away.

“Shut up and take your clothes off.”

He opened his mouth, then seemed to swallow a breath. Then he handed the riding crop and flogger to her. Slowly, he undressed, setting each piece of shed clothing on the chair in the corner. What he’d said still stung, even though she knew it was a deflection. Molly hid her feelings behind a cool smile.

“I’m not going to tie you up, since you won’t play nice.” She lightly swatted her hand with the crop. “Lie on the bed, face down.”  
He strolled over to the bed, completely naked but still carrying himself with a relaxed kind of dignity. Sherlock got onto the bed, face down.

“Put your hands behind your back.” Molly sat beside his prone body. His muscles stood out on his back. She swatted his shoulders lightly, then dragged the leather tongue at the end of the crop down his spine. Goosebumps rose on his skin. She struck the swell of his ass, watching it twitch. Then she peppered his body with strikes, leaving strawberry-shaped pink marks in her wake. She slid her hand in between his legs and stroked his testicles. He groaned deeply. Molly kissed everywhere she’d slapped while gently massaging his balls. He ground his hips against the mattress. She struck him hard on the upper thigh.

“Hold still.” She let go of his testicles and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back.

She leaned over and kissed his throat. “Your neck is gorgeous. So long and so pale. I won’t mark it up.” Molly nuzzled the nape. “But the rest of you—I want you to think about where I’ve been when you look in the mirror.”

She let go of his hair, and his head fell back on the pillow. She took up the flogger and dragged it across his back, before snapping it against his ass. Dragging and slapping had him shuddering very quickly. She picked up the Wartenberg Wheel and ran it across the overheated flesh. She made sure to draw it across lightly enough that it didn’t prick the skin. He was breathing fast and making soft sounds he’d likely deny later.

“You can unclasp your hands. Turn onto your back.”

He turned for her, and she had access to the front of his body. His cock was hard. She reached down and stroked it, feeling him swell even more in her hand. Molly pinched his nipple. He moaned and twisted under her.

Molly swooped down and licked his nipple. Then she ran the wheel over his wet skin.

He groaned and wriggled. She grabbed his face.

“Don’t. Move.”

She stood up and started walking around the bed. “You’ve been willful and disrespectful to me all day. I think I’ve been very patient with you, but Mr. Holmes, you’re incorrigible.”  
He smiled at her.

“The only good thing about you is how red your skin gets when I strike you. It’s beautiful.” She stopped to admire him, and pinched his upper thigh. “You haven’t earned the right to come. But I have. How should I make you please me?” She arched her eyebrow. “You can speak.”

“You seemed to like when I fucked you.”

“That answer did not show me the proper respect.”

“How should I answer?”

“Begging to fuck me would be the right answer.”

“I’ve never begged in my life.”

“Get on your knees. Kneel in front of the bed.”

He rolled his eyes at her. That was all Molly could take—he was making her so frustrated she was afraid she’d beat him to death. She took a deep breath and counted back, just like she did when he’d  
torment her in the lab. Molly dropped the Wartenberg Wheel.

“Never mind. Get dressed—call me or don’t.”

She snatched her coat off of the bed and picked up her purse while he stared at her in disbelief. Molly could hardly look at him with his streaked skin. She began walking toward the door. He clamored off the bed and grabbed her arm.

“You’re really going?”

She stared at the floor. “You’ve fought me every second. It’s clear you don’t want this.”

He hugged her. “I do.”

“We haven’t been together enough for me to know that, and you won’t talk to me.”

“Please don’t leave. I’ll be easier to manage. We can talk afterward. I want to please you.”

Molly let him pull her back to the bed. Dutifully, he knelt in front of her while she sat on the edge of the mattress. She kicked her shoes off.

“Take my knickers off, but leave everything else on.” She stroked his hair. He slid his hands under her skirt and dragged down her pink panties.  
Sherlock lifted her skirt and then let it descend over the back of his head, like a veil. He pressed his mouth to her clit and she ground against his face.

“Use your fingers, too.”

He slid his fingers inside her. She clamped down on them, squeezed them while he groaned against her wet flesh. She wasn’t sure how much of what had happened was real reluctance on his part, or if it was a game. The way he licked and sucked her, he seemed to want her more than anything. He twisted his fingers and grazed her with his teeth.  
It felt so good, and she’d been on the precipice for so long that she came fast. He milked her for a long time, then slid out from under her skirt. She flopped back on the bed.

“Was that good, Molly Hooper?”

“Yes.”

“Could I kiss you?”

She sat up and looked at him. “I thought you’d want something naughty.”

“I want to kiss you. Please.”

They got in bed together and he wrapped her in his arms, kissing her with passion instead of the cool disinterest that had marked the beginning of their encounter. She ended the kiss and held his face.

“What’s your safe word?”

“Sparkles works. The humiliation leaves a pleasant tang on the tongue.”

She kissed him intensely. His kisses moved down to her neck.

“Do you like to be restrained?”

“Yes.”

“Buy leather wrist and ankle cuffs—I’m not fussing about with knots.”

“Wise choice.”

“Do you have any fantasies you want to act out?”

“If something strikes me, I’ll let you know.”

He kissed her, until she was nearly breathless.

“Don’t masturbate this week. I want you frantic.”

“I don’t do that anyway.”

“Why not?”

“It seemed weak.”

Molly suddenly felt very sorry for him. “Drugs didn’t seem weak?”

“Not the same way.”

He got colder in an instant, and Molly could feel his distance even before he stood.

“Don’t want to hold up Mary and John.” He went to the chair across the room that held all his clothes and dressed with his back to her. She got up and stepped back into her shoes, then tugged on her coat. Molly searched for her panties. In fact, she hunted under the bed and in the meager surroundings of the room so long that he was nearly dressed, save for his shoes by the time she thought to ask him.

“Sherlock—”

“Don’t get sentimental, Dr. Hooper. Have a good night.” He didn’t look over his shoulder.

She didn’t correct him, and finally gave up on the knickers. They were too damp to wear again, anyway. As Molly walked out the front of the house, she wondered if she had the emotional strength for their bruising arrangement. Molly’s consolation lay in the fact that he’d been able to resist the stunning and brilliant Ms. Adler, but couldn’t seem to keep himself away from her.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly found a note in her desk drawer the next day. It was a folded slip of paper with a typed poem.

The Death Grapple  
Lying between your sheets, I challenge  
A watersnake in a swoln cataract  
Or a starved lioness among drifts of snow.  
Yet dare it out, for after each death grapple,  
Each gorgon stare borrowed from very hate,  
A childish innocent smile touches your lips,  
Your eyelids droop, fearless and careless,  
And sleep remoulds the lineaments of love.  
– Robert Graves

Molly looked at the note in mild disbelief. She didn’t think he was the sort to read poetry, but that would be the language he’d use to describe her—a watersnake or a starved lioness or a gorgon. Then again, amid all that was the word love again. She folded the note into a tight square, and slid it into her purse.  
*  
**  
Molly sat down with her lunch tray in the Bart’s cafeteria, not terribly enthusiastic about her tuna salad. As she picked up her cup of coffee, someone in a long, black coat walked past her. Then he stopped, turned and sat down across from her.

“Hello,” Molly grinned at him. “Have you got a case?”

Sherlock grabbed her tray away from her.

“Don’t eat that.”

“I just paid for it.”

“No time. Besides, something’s off about the color. Come with me.”

Molly went to grab the cookie off the corner of the tray, but he moved it further out of her way.

“I said there’s no time.”

He stood up, took her tray to the nearest garbage can and dumped the contents while she whimpered softly. He led her out of the room by the elbow. When they got into the hall, Molly shook him off. 

“Explain yourself.”

“We need a pathologist. A competent one.”

“If I don’t get something to eat, I’m going to pass out.”

He stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked down at her. “Didn’t you eat breakfast?”

“John and Mary didn’t get in until late, and I just moved back to first shift. I barely got here on time and then the body they fished out of the river—”

“My case. Here.” He took a bright orange nectarine out of his pocket and handed it to her. “When you’re done with the body, I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Thank you.” She looked at the piece of fruit in her hand. They stood there for a moment, and then he put his hand on her arm. He led her back to the morgue more gently than before.  
He gave her a few minutes to wolf down the tangerine before pushing her through the doors of the morgue.

***

Molly checked her phone and realized she should have left work an hour ago. She’d gotten lost in Sherlock’s case, then had more work to do when he and John left. There were clues and a skip driver involved with the deceased that had gone missing and she was so hungry and exhausted, she didn’t care. The other work, the other bodies, needed her attention more than Sherlock did. He always took her contributions to his investigations and ran off with them anyway, swooping off with the credit. That was the power of the glamorous, she supposed.  
She checked her desk drawer before she left, and found he hadn’t added to the contents. Somehow, that made her sad. Part of her had hoped he’d want to talk about how they’d left things the night before. All of her just wanted him to treat her with more consideration.

He showed her a little more kindness than most. She wondered why she contented herself with that sliver of regard. His body, that was one reason. Wanting him for so long had probably made her barmy. She finished up her paperwork and tidied her desk. Before she put on her coat, she scrubbed up her hands one last time.  
Molly walked through the corridors of the building, then stepped outside into the cold night. She wrapped her coat round her closer, and snuggled into her scarf. It occurred to her that she let Sherlock treat her the way he did. He’d told her she could do anything to him—she was his dominant. If she wanted more from him, she could demand he comply. At least, theoretically. It was supposed to work when they were in an erotic setting. She decided to see if ordering him about would work when they were out in the world.  
Molly slid her phone out of her pocket and texted Sherlock.

“You promised me lunch when I finished. Where are you?”

She was about to put it back, when he responded, “I was working.”

“Are you still?”

“No. Bored.”

“I’d forgive you lunch if you bought me dinner.”

“I’ll have something sent to your apartment. Are you home?”

“Just leaving work now.”

“Text when you’re there.”

Molly grinned. Her heart skipped along, and she felt foolish for being so pleased with his gesture. She indulged herself and took a cab home, because she didn’t want to fall asleep on the tube and risk missing her stop. The cab dropped her off, and she went up the steps to her flat.  
Right before she went inside, she texted Sherlock she was home. As she opened the door, she heard his phone chirp. He stood at her kitchen table, which was laid out with her good china and lit with two taper candles in her grandmother’s silver candlestick holders. She kept those in the back of her cabinet, wrapped in plastic so they wouldn’t tarnish.

Molly cocked her head. “How?”

“Your text. I picked up chicken curry. Curry’s good?”

She dove at him, wrapping him in her arms. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”

He didn’t respond at first, then hugged her back. “It’s a ploy to soften your resolve and let me come.”

“It’s working.” She got up on tiptoe and kissed him. It got hot, and for a moment she thought he was going to sweep the meal onto the floor and take her on the table again. Instead he pulled away.

“Food first,” he said.

He served her a dish of chicken curry and then made up a plate for himself. They sat down together and she took a bite.

“It’s very good,” Molly said, although anything would have been delicious after the day she’d had.

“May I eat?”

“Yes, please.”

He smiled politely and tucked into his own meal. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday.”

“Was that why you gave me the poem? It was nice, but I didn’t appreciate being compared to a gorgon.”

“You don’t understand.” He wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin, and put it back in his lap. “I was talking about myself. I hoped your love would return, like the speaker in the poem.”  
She tried not to choke on her bite of chicken and took a sip of water to get it down. “Love? Isn’t that presumptuous?”

He rolled his eyes. “You love me, Molly. The evidence is overwhelming. It’s not just your physiological reaction to me, which could be written off to lust, but your actions, your patience with me. The transformation from admiration to compassion, your willingness to forgive. You’ve set healthy boundaries, too, which points away from romantic obsession. You love me. Don’t deny it. I’ve abused the fact for years.”

“S-Sh. Sh. Sherlock.” Her face flushed and she could barely speak.

“You’re stuttering. Wasn’t I supposed to admit that bit? Doesn’t matter. I was punished for my transgressions.”

“I d-d-don’t know what you mean.”

“You got engaged. Happily that didn’t last. Since the reprieve, I’ve tried not to take advantage.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

Sherlock began eating again. Molly forced herself to continue chewing and swallowing. He was always saying the most astonishing things, and he pointedly hadn’t said he returned her affections in any way. But it was good to know he didn’t see sex as a way of taking advantage of her feelings. Still, she didn’t know what it meant. He stopped when she stopped, even though his plate was almost full. He cleared the dishes away.

“I’ll do the washing up,” he said.

She went to the bathroom and took a shower. When she finished, she could still hear him in the kitchen moving. She put on her bathrobe and came out to see him putting away the last of the china. Molly reached out her hand to him. He closed her cupboard, then walked over to her and took it.

“Do you have anything planned for the morning?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then take off your clothes and get in bed with me. I want to hold you until I fall asleep.”

“Are you sure it won’t hurt you when I’m gone in the morning?” He kissed her forehead.

“It’s fine. I know you don’t want people to know.” 

“Not just people. Mycroft. The CCTV camera on your street is trained at your front door, but the back is largely uncovered. He’s paid you special attention since you helped me. I’ve nearly convinced him you're a dupe who’d risk her career on a man who could never feel anything for her, but not entirely. Some of the departments my brother helms leak like a sieve. It’s not something you want, Molly.”

All his secrecy suddenly seemed much less funny. Molly hugged him. She thought of how often John’s life had been threatened for his closeness to Sherlock--strapped with explosives, nearly set on fire and shot at more times than she could count. His caution meant she was important to him. She couldn’t make light of his way of caring for her.  
They went to her bedroom. She sat on her bed while he made a production of taking off his clothes for her. He had faint marks on his back from where she’d struck him. Molly reached for him as soon as he was naked. She held his hips and kissed the bruises she’d given him on his chest.

“My darling,” she whispered against his skin. “Lay down on my bed, and hold onto one of the bars of the headboard with your left hand.” 

He stretched out on the bed and did as she asked, gripping the bar of her metal headboard. She laid down beside him, her face close to his.

“What’s next?” He licked his lower lip.

“I want you to touch yourself and let me watch you.”

He looked nervous, but he nodded his assent. She watched him wrap his large hand around the base of his cock and gingerly tugged. 

“You’re beautiful, you look gorgeous doing that.” She kissed him.

“Molly, can I have you. Please.”

“”Keep giving me a good show, and maybe I’ll let you.”

He jerked faster. His hips thrust against his own hand. She dragged her nails lightly against the side of his body. 

“Do you like this?” She lapped at his nipple and he moaned.

“Yes, Molly. Please bite down.”

She teased his nipple with her teeth, making him writhe. Her hands ran over him, free as water. He got more excited, more responsive to his own touch. 

“Make a mess, my darling. Come on your stomach for me.”

At her words, he shook with pleasure. Semen leapt out of his cock and landed on his belly. She dragged her hand through. Molly brought her wet fingers to his mouth. 

“Lick it clean.”

He whimpered, then sucked on her fingers until they were clean. It was incredibly sexy to see him like that; it made her ache.

“You’re so good at this,” she murmured against his cheek.

“Can I please you?” he asked.

“Not tonight--I’m exhausted," Molly said. He kissed her. 

She finished cleaning his stomach with a tissue from the box she kept on her bedside table. Molly snuggled in close to him and they covered up. He kissed her again and again. She could tell he was trying to coax her into sex, but her body was not going to cooperate.

“Would you mind if I gave you an assignment?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“I want you to touch yourself, but don’t bring yourself off. Then when we meet I want you to bring all your frustration to me, and your shame and I’ll take care of you. Do you want that?”

“Yes.” He smiled in the dark. 

***

Sherlock realized he couldn’t stand pornography. Most of it was blisteringly unsexy and he couldn’t stop diagnosing medical conditions or making deductions about backgrounds and locations. After two minutes into the third video, he became convinced the participants were being coerced in some way. He reported the production to the MI6. Sadly, a few hours later it came back he was right.  
He tried to read “The Story of O,” but kept losing his grip on his book or himself. Still images were embarrassing. Erotic mainstream films were boring, and ended up putting him to sleep.  
The only thing that worked was thinking of Molly while he was in the shower. She’d been so grateful for the little dinner he brought. He thought of the way she jumped into his arms and kissed him, like he’d just come home from war. Excessive affection, unbridled. Molly had been so overlooked her whole life that an echo of consideration made her thrum with joy. He wondered what she’d do if shown real reverence, if someone threw himself across the ground so she could walk across him and never let the earth touch her feet.  
That idea worked too well, and the load he’d been carrying slipped away. He stood under the stream of warm water, his muscles relaxed, contemplating what he’d just done. Molly would certainly have to be told, which would result in punishment and possibly more extreme feats of tribute to make amends. He got hard again at the thought.

***

“Will you take your clothes off?” Sherlock gasped, responding to the slap of the crop on his chest.

“Not likely.” Molly smirked at him.

Her dress was pale yellow, dotted with tiny, blue hearts. He’d once told her she looked like a discarded banana skin in it, so she’d worn it to their Tuesday meeting just to irritate him.  
Her clothes were another advantage she had on her lover, who was bound and helpless before her. She loved the way his wrists looked strapped into the leather cuffs. The black leather looked blacker against his ;pale skin. He stood in the doorway of the posh, mystery house naked and restrained by the eye bolts. She flicked his nipple with the riding crop and he moaned.

“How many times did you come this week against my wishes?” She tried to sound stern. He seemed to enjoy the sting in her voice.

“Five times.”

“You’re still too willful. You’ve been sneaking off to play with my things, and I don’t like it.” She cradled his erection in the palm of her hand. He arched his back into her touch. “Your body belongs to me,  
and you’ve been using it so selfishly.”

She slapped his ass with her bare hand. 

“I’m sorry, Molly.”

“I don’t think you are. I think you were enjoying yourself. You need to be punished.” She slapped him again, so hard it stung her palm. “Have you ever been penetrated?”

“Yes.”

“Then I won’t be gentle.” 

Slowly, she walked away from him and over to the bed. She set down the crop. He’d laid out a pair of black silicone gloves and tube of lubricant on the bed. The items had surprised her when she’d first walked in the room. Before they began, she asked how he wanted her to use them, and they’d hatched their scenario. He’d been much more compliant than the first time they’d met at the house in Belgravia. In fact, he gave her specific requests.

“You don’t have to do this.” He sounded panicky and nervous, trying to turn his head to look at her even though his view was blocked by his own arm.

“Other people have been inside you. Are you saying I don’t have as much right as them?”

“No-”

“You belong to me.” She slid the gloves on and then came back over to him. She put a dollop of lubricant on her finger. He looked down at her, feigning fear. If he hadn’t asked her to do exactly what she was about to do, his expression would have stopped her cold. 

“Molly, it’s too much.”

“Relax. You can take it. You’re going to learn to be a good sub for me.” 

She dragged her finger down the cleft of his ass. She teased around the entrance, before pushing her pointer finger into his ass. He shook and groaned. 

“There you are. Do you like it when I press here?” She prodded his prostate.”I like the way you squeeze. You’re so tight. I wish I had a cock--you’d give me the ride of my life, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll give it to you now, if you let me fuck you.”

“Tempting.” She rested her head against his chest and he lowered his head to her forehead. “Or maybe I’ll make you come with my hands. I don’t think you deserve to come inside me today.” She worked a second finger into his anus. “Do you like that?”

“Yes.” He strained to keep his legs from buckling.

She kissed his chest and continued to work her fingers in and out. With her other hand, she squirted the lube directly onto his penis. Molly dropped the bottle and began sliding her hand up and down his shaft. With both hands, she played with him until he whispered, “Sparkles.”  
Immediately, Molly withdrew her hands.

“Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.” She peeled the gloves off and threw them on the ground, something she’d never do normally, but the situation seemed to warrant speed. Molly unclipped his hands from the eye hooks and started to wrestle with the fastener on the leather cuffs.

“You didn’t hurt me. I didn’t want to finish. I need you.”

He pulled his hands away from hers, still in the cuffs, and held her face. “Molly, take me, right now.”

Molly wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but she found his demand irresistible. She kissed him and they moved over to the bed. The only thing left on the coverlet that she hadn’t used was the box of condoms. He laid back against the pillows, guiding her with his eyes as he looked at the box. She took out a foil packet and sat between his splayed legs. Molly took hold of his erection, and then sheathed it in latex. He put his hand on her hip, pulling her forward. She slung her legs over his lap. Her long skirt covered him like a blanket. She pushed her panties to the side and guided his penis inside of her. It felt full and he thrust deeper into her, so deep it almost hurt.

“Can I get on top?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He flipped her onto her back and began driving into her. When he was restrained, he seemed physically smaller, but when he was on top of her, his superior size enveloped her. She felt surrounded. He held the back of her head with one hand and held down her wrist with the other. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

“You feel amazing.” She whimpered against his ear.

“Look at me.” 

She opened her eyes and met his. He stared into her and it was almost too intense, she had to look away. Her orgasm built, and she climaxed screaming his name. He pounded into her through the aftershocks, until he finished, too. They lay together panting, his cock still hard inside her.

“I shouldn’t have let you do that--I’m getting this domination thing all wrong,” Molly said.

He laughed out loud and rolled off of her. “There’s no doing it wrong.”

“I didn’t disappoint you?”

He snapped off the condom and threw it away. “Your dress is slightly disappointing, but otherwise, no.”

“Oh, you bastard!” Molly laughed.

He gave her a silly grin and cuddled up next to her. 


	4. PART TWO

PART TWO  
Molly barely made it to John and Mary’s on time, after she and Sherlock fell asleep. Mary, who sat on the living room couch playing with Rosie, wasn’t ruffled by the delay, but John seemed anxious. Molly felt terrible.

“I’m so sorry,” Molly unwound her scarf, embarrassed of her squelching panties and her wrinkled, yellow dress.   
John already had his coat on. He checked his watch. “Got to head out. We’ll miss the first round, Mary.”  
Mary smiled at her husband, but also held his eyes with a definite “look.” “I’ll keep that in mind, but I’ve got to let Molly know how to care for our only daughter.” 

“Right.” John looked appropriately chastened.   
Mary handed him the baby, and led Molly by the arm to the kitchen. She gave her the usual information about where the expressed breast milk was and the bottle sterilizer. She took Molly aside when they were by the sink.

“Don’t let him make you feel bad for running a few minutes behind. We’re just going to a hotel.”  
Molly covered her mouth. “Why wouldn’t you say? You’re entitled.”

“He likes having a secret.” Mary grinned. “Deep down Dr. Watson is a shy boy.”  
Molly smothered her laugh. “I never would have guessed that.”

“I could tell you stories.” Mary winked.

“You know, if you ever want to come for Friday drinks with Meena and me, we’d love to have you.”

“I’ve got tapas with Janine Fridays.”

“Bring her.” Molly couldn’t believe she’d said it until the words were out of her mouth. For months, she’d burned with envy toward Janine. At that moment though, all sense of competition was gone. Without realizing it, she’d begun to feel confident in Sherlock. Molly told herself to step back from the ledge, and not even contemplate that kind of faith. It would only break her heart.   
Mary pulled a face. 

“What?” Molly asked.

“I don’t want to cause a problem, but Janine is just a touch jealous towards you.”

“For what? My broken engagement? Or was it my cat dying?”

“Um, John’s waiting--” Mary waved her hands.

“Now you’ve got to say.”

“If I tell you this, I don’t want you to make too much of it, because it’s second hand--”

“I promise I won’t.”

Mary glanced around to make sure John was still in the living room. “Sherlock had pictures of you. More than one, tucked into a book.”

“Were they through my window or--”

“That’s what I asked, but they were just normal pictures. One was from our wedding, and he cut Tom out so it was just you. The other one was from some event. You were holding a plaque.”

“He got an award, and he shared it with the Bart’s staff. I don’t remember anybody taking pictures. That doesn’t sound like anything to be jealous about.”

“It was the book where he hid the pictures that got her upset. ‘Venus in Furs’.”

“Like the song?” Molly thought of the lyrics and she must have looked aghast, because Mary giggled. “Oh, like the song.” 

“I told her it probably had nothing to do with it, or if it did, then it was something none of us could figure out, but she’s stubborn. Anyway, I really do have to go, or John’s going to start complaining loudly that his balls are turning blue and falling off.” 

“Oh Mary.” Molly laughed so hard tears sprouted in the corner of her eyes.

They walked back into the living room, Molly wiping her eyes. John looked at the two of them.

“I’m not going to ask. Call us if you need anything, Molly.” John raised his eyebrows and nodded at Molly. He handed her Rosie. Mary gave her a little wave on the way out the door.   
Rosie was just as sweet as usual. Molly did tummy time with her on the floor, read her a story and then fed her a bottle. She was out by 7:30 p.m. At around eight, someone rang the bell.   
Cautiously, Molly approached the door and peeked out the peephole. It was Sherlock, holding a bag of food from the Chinese restaurant down the street. Molly opened the door.

“What’s all this?” she asked.

“You haven’t eaten. Apparently, it’s my responsibility now to make certain you do, so I’ve brought you dim sum.” He lifted up the bag, a look of irritation on his face.

“Since when?” She moved aside and let him in. He locked the door behind her, then held her waist with light fingers. His expression changed--the corners of his mouth hinted at a smile, and he looked at her with fondness.

“Since I gave you a case that made you miss lunch.”

She had missed lunch, because they’d played for hours at the Belgravia house. 

“Thank you.” 

“I can’t stay.” He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “I can still feel you all over my body.”

“Can’t you have dinner with me?” She covered his hand on her waist with her own. He twined their fingers together. His lips were so close to hers, they were nearly kissing. 

“I have to see a client tonight and run an experiment. Don’t tell John I brought you dinner. He assumes I never think of you, Molly Hooper. I don’t want to dissuade him of that.”

He kissed her cheek and then, as quickly as he came, he left.

Molly felt his loss acutely as she locked the door behind him. 

***

Sherlock had fallen asleep on his chair and the fire had guttered out. His copy of “Venus in Furs,” lay at his feet, having cascaded off his lap. The pictures of Molly were scattered. He picked them up, one by one. An image of her In her shockingly ugly yellow dress at John’s wedding while grinning, her holding his award plaque and looking awkward, the picture of her he’d nicked from a frame in her bedroom. In that she looked gorgeous; she wore a black dress, fitted, with a graduation cap on her head. 

He didn’t do anything purient with her photographs, which was why he justified keeping them without her express permission. He just looked at them sometimes, and thought of her. The one with the plaque wasn’t particularly flattering; she looked uncomfortable and she hadn’t even noticed him taking it, but the day was something he enjoyed revisiting. It was the first time he’d ever told a joke that made her genuinely laugh. They’d eaten together at the little luncheon afterward. She and John had talked and he’d interjected and he hadn’t said anything to hurt her feelings. It was the first time after Christmas that she’d relaxed near him and it had felt like she’d forgiven him. 

The wedding photo he liked because she was smiling genuinely--it was one of the moments when she and Tom were dancing and her eyes were shut. She looked blissful. He’d seen that look when they were together; when he held her, sometimes when they were in public and he’d intentionally brush her hand with his to reaffirm their secret, or the moment before they kissed.   
The graduation picture had been impossible to ignore. The dress she wore in it fit her well, and cost a lot--something she’d probably splurged on to celebrate her hard work. Molly could have been a model for all the poise she exhibited. She’d looked so confident and happy and proud in ways she never looked now. He wanted her to feel that way again. Somehow he felt their arrangement would keep that from happening.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly looked in her desk drawer Monday morning and found nothing inside. It had been a whole week since she’d seen Sherlock. He hadn’t come in for work. Greg mentioned he was solving them all from his front room while wrapped in a sheet. She’d read John’s blog, but didn’t feel any closer to Sherlock afterward. Four times, she stopped herself from texting him, because he wasn’t her boyfriend even if he kept track of when she ate lunch now and sent her love poetry and seemed to take up every available thought when they weren’t together.  
Molly was lovesick. It wasn’t good.

Her phone rang, knocking her back to the moment. Molly’s first thought was Sherlock, but then she realized it was Meena calling her.

“Hello gorgeous!” Molly said, brightly.

"Molly, hey. Do you have a minute?” Meena sounded like she was speaking through tears.  
All the cheer drained from Molly’s voice.

“Of course.”

“Um, my mum is doing poorly. I have to bring her to the hospital. I was wondering if you could come today. My sister can’t be alone.”

“I’ll stay with Aisha. Give me time to finish up here and I’ll be over.”

“Thank you, Molly.”

Molly called Mike and told him she had a family emergency. He was very understanding, but he ought to have been, especially in light of all the holidays she’d worked. Molly was on her way out when she physically bumped into Sherlock in the hallway. John stood beside him. Sherlock caught her arm and steadied her.

“Why’ve you got your coat on this early?” Sherlock stared into her eyes, unnerving her slightly.  
John immediately interjected. “Another body’s been fished out of the river. There might be a connection to the first--”

Molly shook her head. “I have to go. Stevens--”

“Stevens is a nitwit. I need you.” Sherlock had gone from irritated to angry.

“I have to see a friend.”

“A friend?” Sherlock bit out. “That sounds promising.” His grip on her arm tightened.

“Please, I don’t have time for games right now.”

“It’s not a game. There’s a murder to solve, Molly--”

John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He looked concerned. “There are other pathologists.”

“I know that.” He let go of her and rounded on John. “Given the importance of the case, I need someone trustworthy."  
Molly hadn’t seen him incensed for a long time, and it made her want to fold. However, Meena was her oldest friend, her best friend, and she couldn’t let her down.

“You forgot your pipette last time you were here. I won’t be in tomorrow so I’ll have to get it for you another day.”

“No rush. I’ll be fine without it.” 

“Okay,” she responded, flatly.

“In fact, I was thinking of getting another. It sticks on the release.”

“Fine.” Molly didn’t have the energy. Clearly, he thought she was off to shag her way through a naval battalion. To avoid any misunderstandings, he was forcing her to dump her metaphorical purse out on the hall floor. Molly took a deep breath. “My friend Meena’s mother is dying of cancer, and I need to be there to take care of her sister. She’s only ten. I don’t know if I’ll be in the rest of the week. Carmine is an excellent pathologist. He’s written an interesting paper--”

“On co-morbidities and mental health. I read it. He is excellent.” Sherlock spoke coldly but his eyes were contrite when he looked at Molly. The compassion switched off when he glanced at John. 

“Apparently, we’ve traded up--”

“Sherlock!” John pushed past him and gave Molly a hug. “Go see to your friend. We’ll be fine.” 

Molly squeezed John, grateful for his intervention. Without it, she would have had to waste more time explaining herself.

“I’ll see you.” Molly stepped out of John’s arms and rushed down the hallway, buttoning her coat as she went. Distantly, she heard them arguing, but there was nothing she could do at the moment. 

***

The body from the river was surprisingly intact, but the information he should have been gleaning kept overwhelming his thoughts, not connecting together. He couldn’t stop thinking of his interaction with Molly. His first impulse had been jealousy. He’d actually thought her unfaithful, even though the idea was patently ludicrous. The only decent man she knew was John, and he was profoundly taken, besides she had no free time to speak of and she was desperately in love with him. If he’d bothered to look at her, he’d have seen her distress, but he’d manhandled her and raised his voice, humiliating them both. 

This was why he didn’t engage in romantic relationships. The distraction dulled the brain, caused mistakes. He should give her up before it went too far. The thought made his stomach ache. It was already too far. Much too far. 

John glanced up at him, notebook in hand. “What do you think?”

“You tell me.”

John’s eyebrows collided. “Um, female, late twenties, white.”

“Obvious. What else?”

“The tattoo--maybe her name is Domino, or a child--” John gestured toward a picture of a domino inked on her chest. 

As soon as he took note of the image, something changed. His thoughts began to cascade, almost too fast to describe.

“It’s the name of her pimp. Not his given name. He was called Ian Whistler and I put him away for human trafficking eight years ago. That’s important. The dots--there’s two pips. The other body, the headless body had a tattoo with three stars dotted around a starling. Corinna had a tattoo with four hearts. That means I’ve missed another victim or she hasn’t been discovered yet--no one starts at four. He’s counting down. He’s using other men as weapons…”

“Who--and is he paying people off? These killings weren’t like that. They were crimes of passion,” John said.

“The man who killed Corinna had wanted to harm her for years. Someone who knew could have tipped off her location. Someone like me, who paid attention. Speculation, but we know Moriarty nudged the cabbie into doing what he already wanted to do by providing money. We could examine the perpetrators more closely, even though it would be a waste of time. I know I’m right. That’s for the police to prove it out.”

“You think it’s Moriarty.”

“Or someone working on his behalf. The headless victim was Marina Stroud, murdered by her lover, the skip driver, in a fit of jealousy. I knew Marina, too, in passing. Not a significant connection like Corinna, which is why I didn’t see it. Who is this woman?”

He walked around the body and gazed at her distorted face. The hair had been dyed brown, no jewelry found on her but a ring removed--he could tell by the white line of skin. A wedding ring most likely, and from the size, large. She had a Cesarean section scar on her stomach. Her toes had been professionally pedicured, but her fingernails were unpainted, short. The truth came to him, the connections syncing up in his mind.

“Sierra Blake, that was the name she chose. One of the three women I freed from a locked basement. She testified against Domino in his sex-trafficking case. Afterward, she got plastic surgery and went into witness protection. She was studying to be a nurse and she has a son. The killer will be an ex-lover, a jilted man from her recent past. Probably the ex-husband.”

“Who’s the final girl, then? These women all knew you. Involved in sex work one way or another--Adler? She’s come back from the dead before.”

“No.” He knew Adler still belonged to Moriarty, more or less, and always would. It was the reason he couldn’t meet her for dinner. Her loyalties would always belong to herself primarily, then Jim Moriarty. Moriarty made certain they were one in the same. “Irene is gone.”

Thinking on the Woman was distracting and painful. Her face fluttered past, a photograph drifting on the air, and then a distant memory. Another face, one he’d never forget.

“Ginger Burns.”

“A real name?” John asked, incredulously.

“Unfortunately. Her parents seemed intent on pushing her to sex work.” 

“Who is she?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.” Sherlock turned to Dr. Carmine, who had been silently observing them. “Contact Lestrade.”

“Of course. It was a pleasure watching you work.” 

“I suspected you were brilliant, Dr. Carmine. Thank you for the confirmation.” Sherlock smiled. Dr. Carmine blushed. Sherlock thought of Molly, and then immediately pushed the thought away--he had to concentrate on work, find Ginger, and save her life again.

John rolled his eyes, and together, they left.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as they got in John’s car, he repeated his question.

“Who is Ginger Burns to you and where am I going?”

“Luckily, she’s still in London.” Sherlock typed her address from memory into the GPS, although he probably would begin shouting better directions when the thing inevitably failed to find the ideal route. John liked a computer barking instructions at him better, for some reason. 

“And who is she to you?”

Sherlock settled back. This was something he’d never planned to say aloud. How Moriarty found out, he would never know--unless Moriarty didn’t know and he’d built the connections out of a grand fallacy as he had with Molly before, assuming she was seeing another man because his reason had been tainted with emotion. Perhaps the feelings associated with Ginger were acting in the same way, the feelings he had concerning the victims. It wasn’t unreasonable to think his brilliant ability to make deductions had devolved into a swirling conspiracy machine. His uncle had become a paranoid schizophrenic, his own father. 

“Sherlock?” John glanced away from the road. “We’re almost there. You flitted out there.”

“Yes, well. Did you say something before?”

“I asked who Ginger Burns is to you.”

“When I was 16, just, I saved her life, and the life of her “boyfriend.” He wasn’t her boyfriend so much as her pimp. He gave her to me for a night as a reward.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yes. What’s worse, I didn’t do the noble thing.”

“I didn’t think you did that, I thought--”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” He was ashamed of his own behavior, even though he was little more than a child when he’d made the choice. It was still terribly weak. He continued, trying to move John’s expression back to a neutral. “She liked me, genuinely, despite the way it happened and I liked her. We met for months afterward until her boyfriend found out she wasn’t charging me. He beat her. I had him put away for the rest of his natural life. Ginger kept working, on her own. My pride couldn’t accept that she’d be with other men, so I ended things.”  
John kept his eyes on the road. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Because I didn’t want to be that person anymore. It was disgusting. I stopped.”

“You just...stopped?”

“It wasn’t easy, but yes.” He’d stopped for years until Molly. Somehow, despite the similarities, it was very different with her. He dismissed Molly’s face, her eyes, out of his mind. They pulled in front of Ginger’s flat. Everything looked normal--brick houses, cobblestone streets, parents pushing a baby in a pram, but he steeled himself for the worst inside.

John still looked confused. ”We’ll talk about this later, eh?”

“Of course.”

Ginger’s flat was on the first floor. He’d kept track of her, despite never having tried to contact her. With trepidation, he went up the steps. John followed. He knocked.  
After a few moments, he heard shoes scraping and metal clicking on the other side. The door opened and Ginger stood on the threshold. Sherlock couldn’t believe how little she had changed in twenty years. She still wore her hair in a short, red pixie. Her green eyes had softened a little on the edges, but so had his. Her figure was the same--she still looked like she could dance on pointe.

“Sherlock? I can’t believe you’re standing here.” Ginger smiled--she hadn’t gotten the gap in her teeth fixed, thank god.

“This is Dr. Watson, my friend.” He spoke in a hushed tone. “We believe you may be in danger.”

“Please come in.” Ginger stepped back to let them enter. 

The walls of her flat were painted turquoise with gold stenciled leaves. She had beautiful oil paintings on the walls, and textured fabric on all her pieces. It was an expensive tribute to maximalism. The air was permeated with incense; it was the same scent she’d burn when they were together. The smell transported him, and he remembered with terrible clarity how he’d felt when they were together. Tears pricked his eyes and for the first time since his early boyhood he wanted a genuine cry. Walking into her flat felt like attending the funeral of his only friend. He didn’t know why seeing her safe and whole should have had that effect. 

“I’ve followed your work, Sherlock.”

“I’ve followed yours as well.”

“Do you know who might want to hurt you?” John took out his notepad and pen. He looked at Sherlock, his eyebrows closer to his hairline than Sherlock had ever seen.

“I know who it is. He hasn’t been subtle. One of my former clients, Lionel Tesh.”

“What do you do?” John asked as he scribbled down the name.

“I’m a sexual surrogate.”

“Is that like a call girl?” John frowned.

“NO!” Sherlock and Ginger spoke at once. 

“She’s a therapist, an excellent one,” Sherlock said, defensively. 

“Thank you,” she looked at him, slightly puzzled. “What makes you think I’m excellent?”

“The awards on your wall and the degree. I’ve also read your blog. It was helpful to me.” 

“I’m so happy it was helpful, I remember some of your issues--”

“Not the time or place,” John seemed like he was trying to keep his composure. “We’re here about the credible threat to your life.”

“We’ll place you in a safe house until he’s apprehended,” Sherlock said.

“Can I pack a bag?” Ginger gestured to the back of the flat.

“I’ll go with you. John, stay here, make certain no one tries to get in.”

“Right.”

Sherlock followed Ginger to her bedroom door. He stopped her on the threshold, barring her way with a raised arm and a finger to his lips. Sherlock looked around the room. It was the type of bedroom that would keep him up, not in the good way. Orange wallpaper covered in red ferns, bright turquoise rugs in a floral pattern, plants and carved wooden masks and batik window treatments in vivid orange. The chaos of pattern and color could conceal a lot but not the rustle under the bed. Tesh was already in the apartment. He’d crawled in through the open window and was lying in wait for Ginger.  
Without thinking, Sherlock slammed the door shut and pushed her to the ground. 

“The hell?” she asked on the way down.

He didn’t speak. They landed, her flat on the floor and him covering her, just as the first bullet splintered the wood, and a terrible sound tore apart the air. The bullet embedded in the wall behind them, sending plaster down in a shower. 

“The police will be surrounding this flat, in minutes, Mr. Tesh!” Sherlock shouted through the door. John rushed over to Sherlock and Ginger, his gun drawn. He sat on the floor with them, his back to the opposite wall. 

“Lionel--stop. You know it doesn’t have to be like this. Please think of your wife. What would Annika say?” Ginger asked.

“She left. She doesn’t care.”

“Please Lionel--” Ginger said.

“It’s over. Everything is over. I lost my job, she’s getting the house. Everyone lied to me.”

“Who lied to you?” Sherlock asked.

“Everyone--he said I’d get Annika back, if I did this. But there’s no coming back from this. It’s over. It’s all over.”

“That’s not true--I can help mitigate the charges. I can get you help,” Ginger leaned across Sherlock, speaking imploringly to the closed door.  
They heard another shot and something fell against the door. Blood oozed underneath the crack. Sherlock backed away, dragging Ginger with him.   
“Jesus Christ,” John scooted out of the path of the blood.

Ginger held onto Sherlock’s chest, sobbing. Reflexively, he put his arms around her. He’d failed to see the pattern and three women were dead. He’d saved Ginger, but just. His gentle sins with Molly had dulled his perceptions, just as he feared they would. He wasn’t clean and separate anymore. Ginger was proof he never had been, not really, but he’d been able to suppress his weakness. Moriarty might have wanted to prove to him he was ordinary, just like everyone else. He craved the attention of a most ordinary woman. The most ordinary woman. He pushed the thought away. Molly would have to wait.


	7. Chapter 7

The funeral for Meena’s mother, Seeta, had been one of the worst days of Molly’s life, only topped by her own father’s funeral. She’d grown up across the street from their family. Seeta had taught her to make Aloo Gobi and had picked them up from track and field practice. They spent holidays together and went to midnight mass at Meena’s church on Christmas. 

Seeing Meena in pain and knowing there was nothing that would make it any better was a terrible feeling. There would be a permanent cold spot in her life now that could never get warm.   
Aisha was inconsolable, and Molly had stayed on an extra day to help fill out paperwork. Death was a practical matter for her, and she knew everything about the banalities that attended life’s end.

“You’re so good at this,” Meena said, with hints of pride and horror. They sat at Meena’s kitchen table and pored over legal documents. Meena would become full time care-giver for her sister and there was so much to sort. 

“Death is my day to day,” Molly replied. 

Meena didn’t have a steady girlfriend, and her entire social life had instantly reshaped around her 10-year-old sister’s schooling, gymnastics classes and band practice. Their Friday drinks night would be replaced with pizza and movies with Aisha for the foreseeable future. There was no way she’d let her best friend weather this disaster on her own, so it meant Molly’s life would be changing, too. She didn’t know how that would impact her thing with Sherlock.

Molly didn’t know if her thing with Sherlock was still a thing, anyway. Their last meeting had ended with him angry and her canceling their date. He hadn’t called her at all during the week to see if she was all right. He hadn’t even texted about his “pipette.” It shouldn’t have hurt her, but it just went to show he didn’t think of her feelings when they were inconvenient.   
She knew from the papers he’d just solved a case involving a woman with a sexy job, who also seemed terribly familiar with him in the photographs that had appeared in the paper. Not the paper so much, as the text push she had on her phone for news about him. The way he was seen comforting the victim had softened his image. They were photographed afterward eating out together at a little cafe Molly had wanted to try. That stung--not so much that he’d taken another woman out for dinner, but that they’d been seen and papped. He wouldn’t have allowed himself to be seen with Molly in a way that could have even remotely been construed as intimate. The only time they ate together in public was at the cafeteria, with John. 

Molly didn’t think he was ashamed of her--or maybe he was, but his feelings for her didn’t matter so much. What mattered was how tired she was of all this. She wanted someone to talk with, and relax with, and something told her that could never, ever be him. It had been fun pretending to be an erotic adventurer, living once a week in a magical space with him. But with everything going on in Meena’s life, she didn’t feel there was energy left for Sherlock’s games. Even a normal friend who could swing by for sex and take away would have been fine, but she couldn’t pretend to be Anais Nin anymore.  
Her first day back at work somehow got worse, instantly. As soon as she stepped onto the street from the tube, someone on a bicycle snatched her purse, knocking her to the ground. No one stopped to help her up, they just pushed on past her. Molly’s left palm was badly scraped and she noticed it was hard to get up. She’d torn a gash in her trousers and blood started to soak through the leg of her slacks. 

She limped into Bart’s. None of her colleagues gave her more than a nod. She went into the supply closet and got alcohol, gauze and bandages for herself. The hand was easy to clean and bind. She decided to double up on her gloves to keep from getting a nasty infection. It was more difficult to get to her leg, and she’d just worked her trousers down to clean the wound, when John Watson burst into her office, with Sherlock tagging in behind him. 

“Nice knickers, Molly--is that the Wonder Woman logo on the front?” Sherlock drawled.

Of course, it was the Wonder Woman logo.

John looked at the ceiling, like someone trying to control a nosebleed. “Molly, what happened?”

“I got mugged on the way into the building. Just needed to get to a scrape.”

That got his interest and despite her discomfort, he came over. “Let me take a look--”

“No, it’s fine.” She pulled up her pants in a hurry.

“Don’t be foolish, Molly, he’s a doctor. You think he’s never seen leg stubble before?” Sherlock leaned against the wall, amused at his own joke. Whatever compassion he’d developed for her seemed to have fled. He was treating her like she meant nothing--pre-awful-Christmas level indifference. 

“Fine.” She took her slacks down and sat on her desk. John approached her without ceremony and examined her knee.

“You’ve a stone embedded. I’ve got to get that out.”

He went out of the room to gather some more tools, closing the door behind him. Sherlock looked at her and then at the floor in front of her and she knew it was coming.

“I don’t want to see you anymore,” he said. 

Even though she knew it was the right thing, it didn’t hurt any less. “I understand.” 

“Do you?” he scoffed. 

“Yeah, it was madness to think we could keep up that level of secrecy.” She hoped he’d just leave, because that morning had already been horrible enough. 

“If you see me coming, go the other way. When I say I don’t want to see you, I mean I think you should transfer to another hospital, preferably another city. Another continent.” He walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Molly’s face crumpled, and she tried not to cry. She opened the top drawer of her desk and found it was empty. He hadn’t given her a parting note.  
John came back into the room, approaching her carefully. He started rooting around in her skin with tweezers, looking for the stone. She couldn’t hold her tears back anymore.

“I’m sorry Molly, I could get something to numb it.”

“It’s fine. Is everything okay with Sherlock? He’s been a bit more himself than usual.”

John delved a little deeper into her flesh and she tried not to scream. “He thinks the case we’ve been working on has something to do with Moriarty. I’m not sure, but he’s convinced there’s a threat out there. And the woman we rescued.” John made a strange little sound and pulled a stone out of her knee. Blood gushed out. She grabbed tissues and pressed them to her wound. 

“Sorry Molly.” He desperately tried to get the mess under control with handfuls of gauze.

“What about the woman?” Molly asked.

“They have a past together. The work she does now seems like it would help someone like him, so maybe that’s why he’s been spending time with her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you know how he is with relationships. Not very good. She teaches people to be intimate, that have problems with it. Still, it’s odd. He always liked to seem above all that.”

Molly hoped her physical discomfort did a good enough job covering her emotions. When they got the bleeding to stop, John finished disinfecting her wound. 

“I haven’t even asked you how Meena’s doing.” He tutted under his breath as he affixed white tape around the gauze pad on her knee.

“Badly, but as well as anyone can expect. I’ll be able to watch Rosie tomorrow night, same as always.”

“Thank you. Really keen not to miss the pub quiz two weeks in a row.”

“Of course.”

Her slacks were ripped and completely covered in blood, and she wondered how she’d get home without money and her phone when Sadie came into her office with a fresh pair of trousers.  
Sadie smiled at John. “Oh, the funny tall fellow with the coat said you needed these. I always keep a spare.”

“Thank you!” Molly hopped up off the desk and winced in pain.

She pulled on the borrowed slacks. It made her feel better that despite his dramatic proclamations, he still cared about her.

An hour later, when she was about to begin an autopsy, a bike messenger came up with her purse. The contents were complete aside from her oyster card and the fifty pounds she had in her wallet. In addition, there was a note, “Be more careful. Sincerely-Sherlock Holmes.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock couldn’t find the first victim. He had been trying for days, searching through all of his old contacts, any woman he might have smiled at in the past decade. He couldn’t find her. For the first time in their friendship, he could tell John wasn’t entirely on board with his deductions. He’d always been afraid of that moment, when he’d lose John’s faith. It seemed they were teetering on the brink now.  
Avoiding Molly was supposed to clear his mind, but he’d found she was everywhere he looked, returning to his thoughts when he’d try to concentrate. She was a plague. He stopped going to Barts when he knew she’d be there to try and eradicate his feelings. Never one to possess a strong appetite, he could hardly eat anything at all since telling her he didn’t want her in his life. 

He had been lying on the couch staring at the ceiling for a long period of time--he wasn’t certain how long. His neck hurt, and he craved a cigarette. He knew he ought to drink a glass of water. The sheet he wore wasn’t adequate for the cold of the actual room in which he lied. He’d been wandering through the rooms of his mind palace, where he kept tripping over Molly; Molly in her lab coat reminding him to eat and stay hydrated, Molly on her kitchen table, naked except for a pair of pink socks, Molly underneath him, her hands entwined with his.

Since breaking things off with Molly, he’d obsessively catalogued her life. He knew the name, occupation and general description of every man she’d ever shagged. Every, single one of them kept crowding into his mental interiors, forming a line outside of the room he’d designated just for her before she’d made her epic jailbreak and infested every corner of his psyche. They were ordered from last to first.   
There was Tom, of course (good job, nice hair, cripplingly threatened by female desire), before him there’d been Brad (Exceptionally good looking, played guitar in a band, erectile dysfunction), Clay (Closet Sadist, Nothing to recommend), Raj (Tall, handsome, emotionally unavailable), Sam (Tall, good looking, intellectual depth of a spoon), Ewan (Medium build, average features, intimidating penis) and of course, Julian (Tall, good-hearted, died tragically).

The men she’d only dated and hadn’t had sexual congress with refused to queue up. They kept wandering in when he was trying to think. Andy, Bill, Cyril, Peter, Quentin, Kyle, Kyle number two, Todd, Junior, Ifram, Noah, Damon, Langford and Jim from IT.

She’d kissed Jim from IT. Sherlock had gotten that information out of her when they discovered that Jim Moriarty was her boyfriend. He’d taken her to Baker Street and made her sit in the chair, made sure John was not home and had grilled her about every aspect of her interactions with his nemesis. 

In his mind, Sherlock replayed the interview. The memory had its own, special room. The time had been at half past three, the sunlight throwing honeyed bars of light across the wall behind her. She smelled like chemicals from the morgue because she’d tried a new kind of soap to get rid of that scent from her skin, but it wasn’t working--too mild a fragrance. Green tea and not suited to her at all. She’d changed it soon after, back to lemons. Her hair fell out of its plait in soft tendrils, the type that made his fingers itch to sweep them back, away from her face. She wore her forest green shirt with the white leaf pattern and her unflattering trousers in the same shade of green, and her bra with the underwire and the padding that she’d bought after the many comments about her breasts that he’d made. The undergarment was green, the same shade as the background on the shirt and it stuck her in the side and made her flinch when she moved a certain way and he’d thrown that bra away the first time she’d let him into her house because it hurt her to wear but was too expensive to get rid of, poor practical Molly. She’d started wearing the soft kind now, with just the lace and he liked that very much and he’d gotten sidetracked even in his memories of Molly, by more Molly.

Focus. 

She had a bruise on her forearm, finger prints. Sherlock had taken her hand and unbuttoned the cuff of her shirt to look at her bruises. He’d smoothed his fingers over them and she’d gotten goosebumps.

“Tell me everything, Molly.”

“I wish you meant it,” she said.

“I do. Tell me everything about your little boyfriend.”

“That’s not what I,” she looked past him and gathered her thoughts. He knew what she meant, and he’d swirled his fingers lightly over her skin, to get the heat to rise in her cheeks. Even then, he enjoyed the fact she wanted him, and he enjoyed pretending he didn’t know. More of the “alien on planet earth bit,” that had served him so well.

He lowered his voice. “When did you first meet him?”

“Um, three weeks ago. He contacted me on my blog, which I didn’t think anybody read.” 

“I read it.”  
She turned absolutely erubescent. “Lovely.”

It was lovely. Her burning skin was beautiful to him. “Then what?”

“He worked the night shift. I got coffee with him. We watched Glee together. We kissed. You know all this.”

“Tell me what happened to your arm.”

She sighed and withdrew her hand from his, holding the bruised arm protectively to her chest. “I confronted him about leaving you his number. The post on the blog mentioned your name and I thought he might have wanted to meet me to angle an introduction. Which, he had, just not the way I thought. He denied it, said I was special. I felt sick, because when a guy says you’re special, it’s not going to end well.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“Something like, You’re special, I really like you. You’ve got that cute nose. I said I just wanted to be friends, because it felt like that kind of thing anyway. Friendly, not romantic. Then he changed.” She curled in on herself, still frightened by Moriarty’s transformation from the most gentle person in the world to something completely opposite. Molly pulled her legs in closer and hugged herself tighter. Sherlock did something John would do when a person took on a defensive body posture. He’d touched her leg. She’d smiled, but he knew it wasn’t comforting her; there was another emotion and he was tapping into a well of shame. He took his hand away.

“He grabbed my arm and told me that you would never be capable of loving me. I would never have you.”

“Me?”

“Everything he did to me was about you.” 

The moment paused in his mind, Molly frozen, mid-sentence. Another Molly stood in the doorway of the flat, her leg bloody, wearing only her white dress shirt and her Wonder Woman knickers.

“How flattering for you that everything in my life was revolving around you, even when I was trying desperately for it not to.” She smiled a hollow smile.

“So you’re returning the favor, now?”

“No, darling, I have nothing to do with this. I’m taking care of my best friend’s little sister, and on top of that, our godchild. I’m not texting or calling as per your instruction. I haven’t once slipped into your window and surprised you, no matter how badly you wish I would. I respect your boundaries. You’re the one who’s doing this to yourself, and to me. You know that.”   
Molly walked over to him, and draped herself on his lap. “You wanted me so badly at this moment. The bruises excited you. You couldn’t stop thinking of what it would be like if I’d hurt you that way and I had no idea. Look at me.” Molly gazed at her frozen counterpart. She got up and walked closer to herself, examining her own face. “I believed him, that you’d never want me. I’m on the verge of tears. Your questioning felt like a mockery.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“You did. You weren’t capable of giving me pleasure so you settled on pain.” She shook her head. “Let’s start it up again. You’re watching this for a reason.” Bloodied Molly snapped her fingers and disappeared, starting the bruised Molly talking again.

“He dragged me close to his face and his eyes were scary. He was like a jilted lover.”

She stopped talking and the scene evaporated. He stood outside his mind palace, wearing only a sheet, feet planted in snow.

A jilted lover.

Moriarty was technically Molly’s ex-boyfriend. He’d once threatened her like a jilted lover.   
Every iteration of Molly flooded his mind at once, faster, and faster.  
She’d been trying to tell him the obvious but he’d let his emotions get in the way.  
Molly was to be the fifth victim.  
Molly was next.

He got up off of the couch and found his phone. Her number went straight to voicemail. As he went into the bedroom to get dressed, he dialed John. Sherlock had already secured his trousers and put on his shirt by the time John picked up.

“What?” John didn’t even bother with hello. 

“I think Molly’s going to be the next victim.”

“This is real, this isn’t a nightmare?”

Sherlock could hear Mary in the background. “Yes, it’s fucking real. It’s three in the morning.”

“Meet me over at her flat.”

“I will meet you at her flat in the morning.”

“John, her life could be in danger.”

“Or you’re obsessed with her.”

“What?” He stopped dressing and nearly dropped his belt.

“The way you’ve been acting lately. You can’t stop talking about her.”

“I’m not obsessed. It’s obvious. Moriarty is her ex-boyfriend, she has a connection to me--”

“She’s not a sex worker.”

That was true, but Sherlock had been treating her like one. Crawling in her window, furtive meetings in secret, denial of her to everyone else. He hadn’t paid her, but perhaps she deserved some sort of lump sum for the trouble he’d put her through.

“Sweetheart, go to your adventure friend and let me sleep,” Mary’s voice was muffled, but Sherlock could still hear her clearly, just as he could hear the rest of their quiet conversation.

“Mary, it’s so late--”

“You know you’ll be up pacing as soon as he hangs up anyway. Just go, my love.”

John returned to his conversation with Sherlock. “I’ll meet you at her flat, then. Give me ten to dress.”


	9. Chapter 9

Molly had been having a good dream when the knocking woke her up. It involved running on an earthen path and a sunrise, but the details evaporated with the tapping. She dragged herself out of bed, to see a torch shining through her window, blinding her in the dark.

“Molly Hooper!” 

It was Sherlock’s voice. Part of her had expected him to appear at her window. Perhaps she’d just hoped. It wouldn’t do to keep him out there, where he could plummet to his death, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to jump right back in bed with him. At least they could talk--he hadn’t had a meaningful conversation with her in two weeks.   
She crawled out of bed and unlocked the window, sliding it up for him. 

He put the torch under his chin, like a child trying to scare the other kids sitting around a campfire, and she could see the man climbing into her bedroom was not Sherlock Holmes. Molly screamed and scrambled back. Immediately, she bumped into the chair from her vanity table and fell onto the ground.

“Miss me?” Jim Moriarty asked. He held up his phone and pressed a button, replaying a recording of Sherlock saying her name. 

“You’re dead. I autopsied you. You’re dead.”

His boots were on her bedroom floor and he was sliding her window shut. “Oh, you’ve never been inside me, girl. That was Richard Brook. Turns out Kitty Riley was close, but not the absolute worst reporter in Britain.”

He advanced on her, shining the light in her eyes and then away, to disorient her more. She crawled back along the floor, her arm covering her face. There was a lead pipe hidden under her bathroom towels and a cricket bat behind her couch. No weapons in the bedroom; stupid, stupid.

“What do you want with me? I’m nothing. I’m no one.”

“That’s what I said.” He gestured broadly with a sweep of his hands. “But he likes you, doesn’t he? I heard a rumor he had pictures of Molly Hooper. Boring sad pictures of boring sad Molly--in a racy place. Then I had you followed. Naughty Molly, letting strange men into your bedroom at night and keeping love poetry in your purse.”

Molly had been inching toward the exit of her room, but she’d only got to the back wall. He leaned down and she put on her sweetest face, the one she used to wrap her dad around her finger.

“You’re not this person, are you? I mean we were friends. I made you popcorn.” 

“I hated every sickening moment with you. I don’t know how he can stand you.” 

“You were convincing, though, when we were together. I can’t imagine you’re really a bad person.”

He grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her up. It was her moment to break or be broken. “You’ll see what I--”

Molly plunged her thumb into his eye, and twisted down, effectively blinding him. He screamed and let go of her hair. She squared her shoulder and slammed him against her flimsy closet door, breaking it in the process, before he could hit her with the metal torch. She pulled the oak drawer out from her vanity table, scattering cosmetics across the room. It was heavy and right next to her, so she used it to hit him in the head. He tried to regain his footing and slid back. He flailed at her while she continued hitting him with the drawer--there was screaming. Both of them were screaming. She hit him again and again and again until there was no sound; until she was holding a splintered bit of wood in her hand.

He wasn’t moving any more and his face had odd edges in the dark. The torch had rolled away somewhere and she was grateful she couldn’t see what she’d done to him. She staggered out of the room. 

Her phone lay on the kitchen table.

She ran over to it and snatched the mobile. Molly stood there, about to call emergency services, when she heard rustling in the bedroom. Molly ran out her front door, with her phone in her hand, wearing nothing but a pair of knickers and her old band t-shirt. She slammed the front door behind her. Molly turned to run down the hallway, down the steps and out into the street, when she collided with a body. She screamed, until she realized the man with his arms around her was Sherlock Holmes.

“He’s inside my flat!” Molly shouted. 

One of her neighbors came out into the hall, a college boy named Ty. He squinted at the bright fluorescent lighting in the hallway, until he saw her. Then his eyes went wide.

“Miss, are you okay?”

“We’re taking care of her. Go back inside,” Sherlock snapped. 

“I’m safe, Ty. Thank you,” Molly said.

Tyler looked at her, uncertain, but backed into his room.

Sherlock took out his mobile and called someone. When he finished barking her address into the receiver, he took off his coat, and moved to place it on her shoulders.

“Wait, there’s blood all over me.”

“That’s what dry cleaners are for. Unless you prefer everyone seeing you in your pants.” 

She nodded.

He wrapped her in his coat, and then his arms.

“I should check to make sure he’s still there,” John took his gun out of his holster. Molly put her hand out.

“John, don’t. He’s so mad. Mary will never forgive me if something happens to you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Molly.” John was about to go into her apartment with his gun drawn when Mycroft walked up the stairs to her flat. He’d shown up with blaring speed. Molly wondered if he’d followed John and Sherlock. 

He looked her up and down. “Did you call local authorities, Dr. Hooper?”

“No. Do you need me to give you a statement?”

“That won’t be necessary since police aren’t involved yet. Your neighbors certainly have.” Mycroft addressed Sherlock, ignoring Molly as though she wasn’t there. “Take her away from here quickly. It will be easier to deal with the police if she isn’t here. I’ll make sure everything is in order before she’s expected to return.”

“Where should I take her?”

“I don’t care. Put Dr. Hooper up at the Four Seasons, just get her out of here.” 

Mycroft ignoring her would have made her angry any other day. At that moment, his dismissal meant very little. Sherlock led her away from the door, and John followed. Four men in suits with guns passed by them as they went down the steps and out of her building. When they were out on the sidewalk, Molly wished she’d thought to grab shoes. The cold pavement chilled her and she began to shiver.

“You can stay with us,” John put a hand on Molly’s back.

Sherlock continued to hold her.

“She’ll stay with me at Baker Street--if she wants.” 

“I’ll stay with Sherlock.” Molly looked over her shoulder at John. “You have enough, dealing with Rosie.”

They walked toward John’s car, parked further down the street. Sherlock noticed her slow step and picked her up. She let him. It felt good to rest her head against his chest. He carried her to the car and set her in the back seat. He shut the door for her, and then got into the passenger side.

“This is my fault,” Sherlock said.

“It’s not--”

“If I hadn’t been so stupid about you, I would’ve seen the obvious.”

She didn’t know what that meant. John got in the driver’s seat, and Sherlock became quiet again.  
John started the car and pulled out.

“Molly, I know you’re frightened, but can you tell us what happened?” John asked.

“Moriarty broke in my bedroom. He monologued for a bit. I clawed out his eye and beat him with a drawer.”

“Jesus--how did you have the wherewithal?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I still feel like he’s in the car with us, I don’t feel safe.” Molly huddled in Sherlock’s coat. The scent of him had impregnated the fabric, and she found it terribly comforting. It was the only comforting thing. “I can’t believe he’s the same man who used to pet my cat.” Molly’s hands shook and she folded them onto her lap. They were stained with red blood and effluvia. She’d had blood on her hands before, every day, but never like this. Her breath started to come faster.

“I know you didn’t mention...you didn’t say, but, do you need the morning after pill? Because I can prescribe that. We can get you to hospital--”

“I stopped him. I don’t even know if that’s what he wanted.” 

“If you give me permission to kill him Molly, I will kill him,” Sherlock said. His voice had a frightening, cold quality.

“Sherlock?” John sounded hurt.

“No.” 

“I wouldn’t get caught,” Sherlock snapped.

“It doesn’t matter,” John said.

They rode in silence the rest of the way to Baker Street. John pulled up in front, and stopped without shutting off the engine. 

“You could come up with us,” Sherlock said.

“I would, but I need to be with Mary right now. I want to make sure she and Rosie are safe.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Sherlock asked.

Molly interjected, “I understand.”

She got out of the car and stood in front of the sandwich shop below his place. Sherlock got out and stood beside her, not touching her hand. Without a word he went to his flat and opened the door.   
They went inside and plunked up the steps together. She hoped Mrs. Hudson would not wake up. Molly followed him into the apartment and he locked the door behind her. He’d never locked the door before. They looked at one another, and she wasn’t sure what to say. It was the first time they’d interacted since he told her he never wanted to see her again. She wasn’t sure what had changed, or why he’d been coming to her apartment in the middle of the night. 

“Can I use your shower?” Molly asked. “I need to get clean.” 

“Of course.”

He led her to his bath and then went into the room with her. Given all that had passed between them, she wasn’t sure if that was appropriate, or what he wanted, but she was glad to have the company.   
She eased out of his coat, and hung it on the hook behind the door. Her shirt was splattered in blood. He turned his back to her. She lifted off the shirt and threw it in his garbage can, under the sink. Sherlock turned on the shower and tested the water on his hand. Molly slid off her underwear. There were cuts and bruises on her body she hadn’t known were there. He turned to her and offered her his hand while averting his eyes. She took his hand, and he helped her over the lip of the claw-footed tub.   
The hot water felt good, but it took a long time for the chill to leave her bones. He stood by while she lathered the soap in her hands and washed. Blood ran down the drain. When she was satisfied with the state of her skin she reached around for something with which to wash her hair. She poked her head out of the curtain.

“Do you have shampoo?”

He went to the medicine cabinet and brought out a bottle.

“Would you like me to wash your hair for you?”

The offer surprised her and she smiled.

“I can do it myself.” She worked her hair into a froth. He stood sentinel beside her, and she wasn’t sure what to think. Molly finished rinsing her hair. She turned off the water. Sherlock handed her a towel for her hair and one for her body. She dried off and then made herself a towel turban. He gave her his hand, helping her step down to the tile.

He led her into his bedroom, to his bed.

“May I sleep with you, Molly?”

“I can’t have sex, if you want that.”

“Just comfort, then?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” 

She took off the towels and got under the covers. He undressed with his back to her and then got in beside her. Molly burrowed against his side. She tried to sleep, but her shaking came back. He held her.

“I keep seeing his face every time I close my eyes.” 

“I’ll protect you.” He held her tighter. “Even if you don’t want to resume our arrangement, I make a vow to you. I will protect you for the rest of your life.” 

“Like John and Mary and Rosie?”

“Yes.” He kissed her forehead. “Aside from Rosie, you other three are resourceful and fare well alone. I’ve stacked the deck in my own favor.”  
She smiled at his joke and tried to settle in against him, but it was impossible for her to sleep.


	10. PART THREE

Four weeks later….

Sherlock sat in Ginger’s office; unlike her flat, the office was done up in soothing earth tones and minimalist design. A painting of a lotus blossom hung above her desk where she did paperwork. There was an area on the floor softened with mats and brown cushions where couples could do exercises and a soft couch where she encouraged people to lie down. He didn’t ever lie down during their sessions; he sat in a chair like an adult even though he would have preferred to lie down. Being on his back would put him at a complete disadvantage to her. She sat in a chair opposite him. The low light made it look like they were going to meditate. She’d offered to do guided meditation with him when she learned about his mind palace, but that felt like too much of a violation. That part of him had to remain sacrosanct, even if he was willing to open up to help Molly.

Ginger smiled at him, her pen poised over her pad. “How was this week?” 

He tented his fingers and looked at her over them. “Fine. She’s been at Baker Street when she hasn’t stayed over at Meena’s. Aisha has child things that need attention. Tuesday we took care of Rosie together.”

“How was that?”

He couldn’t help smiling. “It was homely. Molly fell asleep early and I cared for Rosie on my own.”

“Good. How are Molly’s nightmares?”

“Less.” He looked at the ceiling--a soothing shade of pear green that didn’t quite do the trick. “I don’t know. She doesn’t want to bother me. Sometimes I find her awake, knitting, or more often, pacing. She just carries on quietly.”

“Couples therapy would be more effective if I could have both members of the couple present.”

“We aren’t a couple and she won’t see you. You make her self-conscious.”

“I’ve said both these things before, and I hope you’ll listen--you are a couple, even if you’re not currently engaged in sex. You need to clarify your status with her.”

“Noted.”

“And if she’s not comfortable with me--which is reasonable on her part given the circumstances--then I can recommend some excellent therapists who will help.” 

“No. I trust you.” 

“Then she can see someone independently, Sherlock.”

“Noted.” 

“Have you gone public yet?”

“No, but we’ve ceased to hide. John has suspicions that I haven’t actively dissuaded. I took her to dinner--it was a fish and chips shop. I saved the owner from prison and he always gives me extra chips. 

She’s flirting with vegetarianism, so it was a bust. He fries the chips in pork fat, and the fish was right out, but she had a fizzy drink. I think she liked that.”

“Did you ask?”

“Ask?”

“If she liked the fizzy drink.”

“No. The dinner was an obvious failure. I didn’t want to push my luck. She made herself a tin of soup when we got back to Baker Street and barely ate that. It was the worst night of the week with her   
shaking in her sleep.”

Ginger took in and then blew out a deep breath. A cleansing breath, he presumed. Molly did that when he intentionally needled her. Ginger smiled again.

“Ask her what she would like to do for dinner. You’re so good at observing everyone else--if she looks uncomfortable, gauge her feelings and ask her if she wants to leave. You already notice things--it’s not a skill you need to develop.”

“I can do that.” He noticed she couched her criticism in flattery.

“What about intimacy? Is that moving in the right direction?”

He looked away from her and fought the urge to cover his face with his hands. “We’ve begun kissing again.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“It’s childish. We only kiss and she touches me--not like that, like what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything. Why do you say it’s childish?”

“It’s what teenagers do, don’t they? Snog for hours.”

“To become comfortable with themselves and each other. It’s good, especially when someone’s in a new relationship or experienced a trauma or if partners want to reconnect. All of those things apply to you.”

“At least sex is slightly masculine. What I do with her is not.”

Ginger nodded and leaned forward. “You feel vulnerable with her. Without the structure of roleplaying you’re afraid of revealing too much of yourself.”  
That was true--it didn’t take a genius to draw that conclusion. He almost said that, then stopped himself from sniping back at her.

“Noted.” 

“Why are you afraid of being vulnerable?”

“My upbringing. It’s a cliche but it’s true. And you.”

Ginger sat back and her encouraging smile disappeared.

“Please explain.”

“It’s bothered me for years.” He stopped and then started again. “A few months after you, there was a girl. I liked her. The first time I approached her, I did it the way I had with you. I never so much as touched her hand, but she was terrified of me. Later, there was another girl. I liked her even more. We went further. She told me it was wrong, that the way I...I hurt her feelings. I scared her. It’s why I stopped for years until Molly.”

“What did you do?” Ginger asked, gravely.

“I told the first girl I was going to fuck her. She was only sixteen and no one had ever spoken to her that way before. I laughed it off that she wasn’t sophisticated, but in retrospect it was disrespectful. The other girl. I more than liked her. We had a proper first date. I walked her to her door. When she kissed me good night, I backed her up against a wall and started taking her clothes off. We were outside. She didn’t want anything to do with me after that. I confronted her and she cried. I made her cry. I didn’t apologize. I fled.”   
Ginger put her hand on his wrist. “That’s so difficult, but you learned. You should be proud of yourself for trying to be a better man.” 

“Don’t comfort me. I hurt you. Terribly.”

She winced and took her hand away. 

“You didn’t understand--neither did I. I mean, you grew up on James Bond movies where women are the prize you win for doing a good job.”

“I knew it was wrong.”

“But it wasn’t a negative experience for me. Being with you was the only time I felt like my body belonged to me. I wanted you.” 

“The first time you didn’t even know me.”

“Even the first time. You were exactly my age, and you let me do what I liked to do. It was the first time I felt control since Noel forced me into that situation. And then you helped me become independent.”

“I took advantage.”

“You did. But as I said, you learned.” 

“I don’t know that I did. Molly told me when we first started that I was treating her like a vice, not a person.”

“Did you stop?”

“I did the things she asked me to do, but I don’t know if I ever stopped thinking of her that way.”

“Guilt was useful when you were first dealing with how you treated those women, but it’s gone beyond that now. It’s creating shame where there shouldn’t be shame. Molly is your equal, she’s not a victim. She’s a willing participant in your fantasies. For next week, I want you to concentrate on forgiving yourself for having desire, and I want you to express it to Molly in a positive, healthy way. Listen to her and respect her limits. When you kiss, be in the moment without judging her or yourself. Just enjoy that the person you care about wants to be close to you. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.” 

They stood, and she started to walk him to the exit, when she stopped. “Sherlock, you really have been a good friend to me, ever since we met.”

“I don’t...think of myself as having friends.”

“You should. The responsibility and the happiness are both yours. You’ve taken on a lot of the responsibility. You should let yourself feel the happiness.” 

She hugged him. Somehow, their talk made him feel lighter. He patted her back awkwardly, thanked her, and left.   
Molly would be finished with her work in an hour. If he hurried, he could be at the hospital to meet her.


	11. Chapter 11

Molly was surprised to find Sherlock waiting for her outside her office. Since lunch she had been dreading the tube ride to his place. Every stranger seemed to be a lurking threat. Her relief must have shown on her face, because he grinned.

“Glad to see me?” 

“Very glad.” She almost hugged him, but stopped herself. 

“Are you hungry?”

She pulled on her coat and buttoned it up. “I should eat. Do you want to get takeaway? Everything’s still open.”  
They continued walking. He opened the door for her when they reached the end of the hall.

“You have tomorrow off. I thought we could go out.”

“Not the chip shop.”

“Not the chip shop. Where would you like to go?”

Molly stopped. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” he replied, slightly affronted. 

They went outside. The sun had set an hour ago, and the winter chill made her huddle closer to him. There were people walking past on the street. She resisted the urge to take his hand and lean away from them.

“There’s that new place by you. They do French food.”

He guided her by the elbow to the edge of the sidewalk, where he hailed them a cab. “That sounds fine.”   
She looked up at him, slightly confused.

“Honestly, you don’t mind?”

He looked down at her, a little line forming between his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded.” 

***

Taking Molly out for a meal of her choosing was a revelation. She smiled at him and laughed at his jokes. It was the most relaxed he’d seen her since Moriarty had attacked her. Being Monday night, there were few diners. He didn’t like crowds and Molly had been shirking them lately, so it suited them both well.

The restaurant interior was adequate to his tastes, although he disliked the butcher paper on the tables. Even though it was more sanitary, he found the crinkle distracting. Molly liked it more than he did, which was the point. She thought the crystal chandelier in the middle of the room was pretty and admired the pale blue walls. His experience of his surroundings was never so simple. Things being pretty never gave him any pleasure--there were always the layers of manipulation at play behind objects, the status they were meant to convey, the danger lurking in plain sight. Nothing was ever just pretty. When she glanced at things and took in their aesthetics, she wasn’t analyzing the marketing strategies behind their placement, the education level of the decorator, or the sanitation standards of the kitchen. She simply looked and saw the lovely glasses, the charming art and accepted the moment as a gift from him to her.   
Once he’d thought of that type of thinking as shallow, but he could see there was a spine of generosity running through. Molly saw his gesture for what it was, without criticism. She could see the truth in him and wouldn’t reject it based on napkin color. Molly was the opposite of shallow.   
He ate everything placed before him, from the soup and the rustic salad to his beef. Only when he’d eaten half of Molly’s salad after finishing his main course did he remember he hadn’t eaten all day. 

Molly finished her soup and nibbled at her goat cheese souffle. Her appetite had dropped off considerably, but at least she had eaten something. Still, her cheeks had a hollow look. Before the server could clear their dishes, he picked up the dessert menu.

“Share dessert with me?” he asked.

Molly took the menu. “I like that it’s just a bit of card with calligraphy--like the chef wrote it out this morning.” Her face turned red. “That’s really stupid. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not stupid--it’s nostalgia, although with some people it’s hard to tell the difference.” He glanced up and realized her face had fallen. “Not you. I wasn’t saying you’re stupid. Your father used to write out the menu at his chip shop on a chalkboard.”

She stuck the card back in its little wire stand.

“How did you know that?”

“Picture in your bedroom. You were six, pigtails, sitting on the counter next to your father and his chalkboard.”

“I didn’t think you noticed...which is silly because that’s what you do.” She grinned. “He used to write out a little line of verse for the customers every week--he loved Irish poetry.” She straightened the flatware beside her plate, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t think I can eat another bite. Would you like to go home?”

“Yes.”

He flagged down the server, a bald man in his forties, French-Caribbean accent, rainbow pin on his lapel and ring on his finger--married to the chef, whose picture in the paper was framed above the cash register for having won a James Beard award in the United States….and then he stopped himself before he could finish deducing the rest of the man’s life and simply paid him. His focus was supposed to be Molly, and the moment, not every other person who wandered into his path.  
They got up and he helped Molly into her coat--it was polite, but also reminded him of the first night he had had her, when he put his shirt around her shoulders. Without thinking, he kissed her cheek. She hugged him. They were hugging and kissing in public, anyone in the restaurant could see, and he fought the urge to push her away. Instead he counted back from five and took a deep breath. She must have felt his ambivalence, and immediately let him go.

“Sorry. I still don’t know the rules.” Molly picked up her purse and held it close to her body. They walked outside at a safe distance apart. 

She took her faded, blue, leather gloves out of her purse and pulled them onto her hands as they walked. He couldn’t help thinking of her in black leather gloves and wondered if she’d let him buy her a pair. Ginger would probably say that was pressuring Molly for greater intimacy rather than letting her set the pace, but it was just a pair of gloves. If he wanted to imagine her wearing them while she dragged her hands across his naked flesh, that was his own business and had nothing to do with actual sex he may or may not ever have again with Molly.   
Never having sex with her again was a genuine possibility. He’d ended that aspect of their relationship for reasons he hadn’t fully articulated to her. She’d accepted it easily, so perhaps she’d grown tired of embodying all of his fantasies. The way she’d acquiesced to everything, every filthy secret, every uncertainty, couldn’t possibly have lasted. The novelty of him wasn’t worth the effort anymore and even though she loved him--her stutter, her frozen words said more in their silence than any speech could--he’d broken that aspect of their arrangement with his games. He and Moriarty.

“Sherlock?” Molly moved closer to him on the sidewalk. They were almost to his flat--the restaurant was only two blocks from Baker Street. “When do you want me to leave?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your place. When should I make the transition back to mine?’

“Never.”

“Thank you, but I should probably stop staying with you soon. I’m afraid all the time, and if I don’t face it, I might never go back to my flat.”

“Why won’t you come to Ginger’s with me?”

“I told you.”

“Then see someone else. John can recommend a doctor.”

“I’m a doctor and I don’t think I need that.”

“Fine.” He stopped and took his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call you a cab to take you back to your flat. Stay there tonight without me.” 

She grabbed his arm. “Please don’t.”

“Why? If you’re fine, why won’t you?”

“Tonight was so nice. Please don’t.” She held fast, and looked up at him with her sad eyes. It called up a bitter memory of his mother begging his father to come down off the roof. He shut that down. 

“I don’t want you to leave, Molly. I want you to get better and stay with me.”

“I didn’t think you wanted people to know.” She let go of him, startled.

“That doesn’t matter any more.” He started walking at a brisk pace. 

She lagged, standing alone on the sidewalk before she ran to catch up with him.

“I want to be your girlfriend, but I’m not ready to give up my apartment.”

They reached 221B Baker Street and he took his keys out of his pocket. She stood at his side, waiting for his answer. 

“What exactly does that mean?” He unlocked the door.

“What?”

He looked down at her. “My girlfriend. What does that mean?”

Sherlock pushed the door open and walked inside. Molly opened her mouth and closed it again. He hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t come out for a chat, because he desperately wanted to hear Molly’s   
answer. Carefully, they trod up the steps, avoiding the creaky third.   
When they were safely inside his flat with the door secured behind them, and their coats hung on the peg, he asked her again.

“What does it mean, you being my girlfriend?” He walked over and plopped down in his chair; legs and arms akimbo. 

Molly sat down in John’s chair, being careful to cross her legs at the ankle and holding her hands tightly in her lap.

“Everything I said before; I want you to let me know if you have to break a date, I don’t want you to have sex with other people and if we’re going to be together, you have to stay clean.”

“What else? Flowers every Sunday? Chore sheet?”

“If we’re not living together, why would we need a chore sheet?”

“It’s something John said when we started rooming together. I don’t have much experience being with other people.”

“I want to go out like we did tonight. Tell people I’m seeing someone.”

“I accede to all your demands.”

“Wait, I’ve got one more. You need to be considerate of me when I’m at work. Stop making it seem like I’m a schoolgirl with a crush on you to everyone. It’s humiliating.” 

He had done that, intentionally. His dismissal of her in public had rapidly increased when he started begging for her touch in private. 

“I’m sorry, Molly. I’ll stop.” 

She smiled. “Is there anything you want from me, as my boyfriend? Chore sheet?”

He smiled back. “Sex. When you’re ready.”

“I’ll be ready soon...I don’t know when I can do the other things you like.” She looked down at her hands and seemed to shrink into the back of the chair. 

“Violence is triggering?” he asked, using one of Ginger’s turns of phrase. 

“Yes.”

“Then it’s out.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes. If you want to revisit later, tell me, but for now don’t worry about that.” 

She looked up at him, the tension in her body easing. “I will.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock had wanted to spend their Tuesday in bed, but Molly had to go get more clothes at her apartment and then a case beckoned him away from her. She told him to go, so he and John went to work. They didn’t wrap up until it was time for John to meet Mary for their weekly pub quiz.

Molly was already at their flat, sitting on the couch and holding the baby in her arms. Mary sat beside her, a smile on her face. They’d clearly been talking about him, from the way Molly’s color came up when he walked in the door.

John didn’t seem surprised that Sherlock wanted to help care for Rosie. Or rather, he didn’t seem to care. He was terribly distracted and angling toward the door. Sherlock noticed that John came back from the bathroom with neatly styled hair, in the new shirt Mary bought for him and wearing the cologne she’d picked out. The way he kept checking his watch, but had taken the time to make these improvements to his appearance finally made him realize that there was no pub quiz; John was taking his wife to a hotel and was very eager to leave. He couldn’t wait to tell Molly, until he glanced at her and realized from the amused look on her face, that she already knew.

John and Mary departed and then they were alone with Rosie. Molly fed her a bottle and Sherlock sang to her in her bedroom, until she fell asleep. He’d figured out she liked the rumble when she laid against his chest. Molly watched him sing the lullaby and settle Rosie in her crib, with an extraordinary expression on her face. She looked like she wanted to tackle him and devour him whole.   
He supposed it was a function of genetics that women would be attracted to men who displayed good parental qualities. Even though it was crass, he was grateful to the baby, and made a promise to himself to bring her something brightly colored and squashy to chew on the next time he came to visit. 

Molly and Sherlock went back downstairs and sat on the couch. She glanced at him nervously, all edges and nerves.

“Do you want to watch something?” she asked.

“No.” He traced the shell of her ear with his fingernail. She made a soft cooing sound and then she pounced. She kissed him with more ferocity than she’d ever done before. Molly sat on his lap and delved into his mouth with her tongue. He wasn’t sure how to hold onto her, she was moving over him and sliding her hands under his shirt. She washed over him, like a wave at the beach. He wanted her to drown him. 

“You’re gorgeous, aren’t you?” she whispered against his ear.

“That’s the consensus, yes.” 

She burst out laughing, delaying her onslaught. 

He smiled up at her. “Is that what prompted this display of affection? Do you like the way I look tonight?”

“Of course, but I’ve been thinking--have you ever seen those American movies, where the babysitter’s boyfriend sneaks over while the parents are out?”

“I told you, I don’t care for pornography.” 

“That’s not what I mean--although I guess that probably is something. But I thought it would be fun if you could pretend you’re my boyfriend and I’m the babysitter.”

“Those are just facts, Molly. We don’t have to pretend anything.”

“No, pretend we’re younger and you’ll get in trouble if the parents find out you’re here.”

“How much younger?”

“I don’t know. When I babysat my cousins I had braces and wore too much black eyeliner.”

Sherlock didn’t mean to wrinkle his nose, but it was an involuntary reaction to the thought of kissing a child. Molly eased herself off of his lap and he cursed himself for being so transparent. 

“I’m dreadful at this.” She flopped down beside him.

“At what?”

“Seduction.”

“You were doing a splendid job until you started talking.” 

She put her head in her hands and he didn’t know why he couldn’t stop talking himself. Molly moved to get up and he caught her arm.

“Wait, what did you like about it? Was it the sneaking about, or the getting caught?”

“Not really. I thought you would like it, because of everything.”

He stroked her arm in an encouraging way. She settled back against the cushions. “We grew up so differently. You had boarding school and nannies. My parents weren’t like that and even your first time was so different from mine. I liked that it was a fantasy that could have happened to me. We could share something. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” He took her hand, trying to be careful. “What was it like for you the first time?”

“Quick. Not spectacular.”

“Why do you want to recreate that with me?” He shook his head.

“Not that part.” She smiled. “He was a virgin, too and we planned everything ahead. His parents had a house with a shabby, little garden in the back. He put up a tent there and had sleeping bags. I snuck out and met him. He was so sweet to me and caring during the whole thing. The best part was after. We talked all night about our plans, and just silly things. I want a memory like that with you.”

“I could borrow a tent.”

“No--that part wasn’t so good. I liked being close and safe. Being innocent. Everything between you and me has had a touch of cynicism.”

“You are my first real girlfriend, Molly.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I can be innocent for you. I could be the fumbling boy, terrible with women. That’s essentially who I am when I’m not with you.”

She smiled. “I’m not so better with men.”

“That’s the fault of the men. Can we try again?”

“Sure.” Molly looked intrigued, her eyebrow quirked and a smile on her lips. She adjusted on the couch, pulling her legs up and facing him.

“In this scenario, my sexual experience is limited to staring at you while I think you can’t see me, and trying to remember every aspect of your face while I bring myself off in the shower.”

“I thought you didn’t do that,” she spoke softly. 

He swallowed hard.“I did then, when I was younger. I couldn’t help myself. But the fantasy--I feel so guilty every time I’m near you. I think you know how badly I want you from the way I freeze up when you’re close. Our parents are friends, so you’re forced to be social with me. Every time we talk, I’m arch, affected and indifferent--the way I was when we first met in real life. I’m always appraising you, dismissing you to pretend I’m in control of my feelings, but I’m not. I’ve wanted you for so long and now I’m here, babysitting your little sister and you come home early from your date, which went badly. I’m grateful it went badly, yet I’m terrified of you.”   
The way she sat, perched on the couch and leaning close to him let him know she was very, very keen to play his game.

“So I’ve just come in from outside and I sit down next to you,” Molly said. “I’ve never noticed before, but you’re not bad-looking. Had a growth spurt since the last time I saw you and I like the way you do your hair now.You’re eighteen, so there’s nothing wrong in my looking, but it feels so funny anyway. What do you say to me when I sit down?”  
He licked his lips, and then tried to look as bored as possible. “You’re home early.”

Molly crossed her legs. “We didn’t hit it off.”

“Scared him off with talk of the morgue, or was he gay and just trying to throw his mum off the scent by going along with a fix up?”

“Neither. He wasn’t very clever. I asked him to bring me home early because he couldn’t hold my interest.” 

“Really?” He managed to make his voice crack. Molly quite liked that, because she put her arm on the back of the couch, right behind his head. 

“I noticed you nicked my chemistry book. Were you reading it?”

“It interests me.”

“You must be very clever to keep up with that. I’m in my second year.”

“It’s easy for me.”

“I’m like that with biology. I find the human body fascinating, all the nuances and idiosyncrasies. I could study it endlessly.” Lightly, she touched his hair, sliding her fingers through. He shut his eyes. “Do you ever think of how many nerve receptors are on your hands?”

“No. There are seventeen-thousand. Each. Fingers and forehead are the most sensitive parts of the body.”

“Yes, I know. Are you still playing your violin?”

“I’m getting quite good.”

She took him by the wrist and traced a line along his index finger. “You’ve got clever hands.”

“You’d be more entertained by my hands than your date.”

“Yes, I think so.” She smiled slowly at him until he pretended to realize his mistake.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He yanked his hand away. 

“But I did.” She moved closer to him and he inched back. “Have you ever kissed a girl before?”

He scoffed. “Of course.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“No. That would be disrespectful to your parents. And your sister.”

“You’re right. I’ll just go upstairs then.” She started to stand and he caught her arm.

“Don’t go. Please.”

“What do you want to do with me?”

He tugged her down to the couch again. Without a word he pressed his lips to hers. They stretched out, her on top of him. She took control, guiding his trembling hands along her body. When she slid her tongue into his mouth, he started back, feigning fear. She stopped kissing him and rested her hand on his chest, just lying with him, until he sought her mouth again. She was the sweetest lover with a devastating confidence. As he tentatively slid his hands along her body, trying to remember not to move too fast, he wondered if she knew she would have been his fevered teenage wet dream.

***

Sherlock woke as soon as Mary and John got home, but not soon enough to rouse Molly and slide her off of his chest. They’d spent the night kissing and talking. He’d tried to stay in the moment without judging himself or her as Ginger had instructed. Pretending to be teenagers made it easier. They hadn’t gone further than kissing and touching over clothes, but it was still embarrassing to be caught cuddling. He liked to pretend cuddling was beneath him, but it might have been his favorite part.   
John gave him the most unexpected look in response to his sheepish expression--John looked relieved to see Sherlock holding Molly. Mary didn’t seem surprised or concerned. He got the feeling Molly had given her friend an array of shameful details. 

Mary winked at him and smiled before easing out of her coat. “Was she good?” 

It took him a reeling second to realize she was talking about Rosie, and not implying something rude about Molly. 

“The baby was good. She’s always good,” Sherlock said, gently moving so that he could wake Molly without startling her. Molly snorted and then looked around, dazed.

“Time is it?” she asked.

“One in the morning. Everything ran long. I’m sorry,” John said.

Molly got up and Sherlock realized his arm had gone numb. He shook it out and Molly went with Mary somewhere, presumably to fetch their coats. John sat down next to him, while he tried to get his hand to stop going pins and needles.

“Interesting night?” John seemed to be picking his way carefully into the obvious conversation.

“It was nice. Rosie fell asleep easily, no problems.”

“I didn’t mean Rosie.”

Sherlock had the vague inkling that he was going to be the recipient of a lecture. It had the same feel of a father gravely intoning the importance of prophylactics to his University-bound son. Not that his own father had done that--on graduation day, he’d tried to explain to Sherlock about the new kind of math he’d invented before he wandered off into the garden.  
John folded his hands.

“This isn’t a Janine situation again, is it? Because you hurt her more than she lets on.”

“No. I’m not leading Molly on.”

“Good. Because she’s a good person, she doesn’t deserve that.”

“I know.”

“She’s a friend. Be careful with her.”

“I am careful.”

“Because you’ve hurt her before.”

“I know. It won’t be that way this time. I love her,” Sherlock said, hardly realizing what he’d said until the words were out. “I mean as you said. She’s a friend.”

“I know what you meant.” John smiled and then went upstairs.

Mary and Molly came back with the coats, their laughter barely contained. It was plain from Molly’s face she hadn’t heard his admission. He didn’t know how to proceed--Mary showed them out and they went back to his flat. He had the impulse to disconnect, flee. Instead he led her upstairs and they got into his bed. He held her chastely because that’s what she seemed to want, and almost immediately, she fell asleep.

She passed the night without waking up. He monitored her the entire duration, except for an hour around five a.m. when he fell asleep himself. Her rest seemed relatively untroubled. At the normal time, she awoke, showered and dressed. They had breakfast together, and she ate two pieces of toast. Normally she only finished one, so that was a good sign, and she remembered to make him toast. It nagged him when she’d move through the morning like she still lived alone, only making enough coffee for one, but that morning she was considerate of him. Attentive, even. She offered to fry him an egg, but he begged off. When he worked a case, his appetite always flagged, and he realized the puzzle before him was Molly.  
Molly seemed better and he wasn’t sure what had caused her symptoms to improve, especially since he’d begun to feel worse. He’d told John he loved her, and had meant the sentiment. Now that John knew, it was only a matter of time before Molly figured that out. There was no telling what she’d do when she did. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted her to do.  
He watched her fluttering about the kitchen, filling up her coffee thermos and nibbling on her toast. When she finished, he walked her to the door. She kissed his cheek.

“Would you meet me when my shift’s over?” 

“I should be able to manage.” He kissed her lips. She started to pull away and he kissed her again. He wanted her to think about it all day, the way his mouth felt, what he could do for her. He wanted to make her miss him as much as he was going to miss her. “When we get home I want to play that game--the babysitter.”

She smiled. “Really? I didn’t think you liked that one.”

“No, I think there’s something worth revisiting.” He kissed the tip of her nose, and had a flash of resentment that Moriarty had recognized its irresistible qualities before he had.


	13. Chapter 13

The clock felt slower than normal. Usually she enjoyed the solitude and the sense of discovery in her work, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Sherlock and what he had planned for their evening. He’d texted her multiple times with suggestions for the scenario he wanted to play out that night, including a picture of himself in his old school blazer, with the caption, “Still fits.”   
His enthusiasm made her smile to herself. In fact, Carmine had asked her why she had that funny smile on her face while she was conducting an autopsy on an enlarged heart.   
When her shift ended, Molly took extra time scrubbing her hands and refreshed her lipstick in the bathroom mirror. She finished up the last of her paperwork and then left four minutes early. Sherlock stood waiting for her outside of her office with a coffee in each hand. He wore his long black coat and his purple shirt--which he knew was her favorite. He gave one of the paper cups to her.

“The amount of cream is right,” he said.

She took a sip. “It is. This is delicious.”

“It’s the best in the city.”

“Thank you, you didn’t have to go to any trouble.”

“I did, since I’m also drinking the coffee.” He started walking. She did her best to keep up as they went down the hall. “Lestrade stopped by after you left and took up a few hours of my time.” He looked down at her. “I’m sure you heard about it, the body passed through.”

“Yes, sad one.” The victim had been young and she could see he was a victim of repeated poisonings and unneeded medical procedures. 

“Munchhausen by proxy.” They both said at the same time. 

“I look forward to reading your report.” He tilted his coffee at her, a subtle toast.

“Why did they bring you in--the auntie was the obvious culprit.”

“She used him to forge millions of dollars in paintings. Gary?” He looked to her for confirmation.

“Greg.” 

“Greg needed to figure out where she got her money and it was simple afterward. Then he left, and I solved another case over the phone. Barely a three, not worth mentioning, except there’s money coming in.” He held the door open for her at the end of the hallway. “I’d like to buy you something with the money, and you should know it’s nothing to me. An hour’s worth of work. I didn’t even have to refill my tea.”

“Was it expensive?”

“It might be, if I bought it. Which I won’t. I’ll put the money aside for when you’re amenable again. I don’t want to push you in one way or the other.” He seemed awkward suddenly and she knew he was trying to talk about something sexual. 

“Just tell me what it is, darling.” She wasn’t sure if she ought to call him darling in public, but the corridor was empty. John and Mary knew about them. On top of that, he didn’t bristle at the term of affection. In fact, he seemed happy. His eyes gleamed. 

“I had several ideas throughout the phone call that made listening tolerable.” Sherlock put his hand on her back. 

Greg walked into the hallway as they stood there. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice him, but she did. Molly took a step away from Sherlock, putting space between them.

“Greg, hi,” Molly said, hoping that by repeating his name Sherlock would remember. 

Greg stopped and gave her a cursory nod. “Molly, would you excuse us?I have a case I want to discuss.”

Molly frowned at Greg’s dismissal. She’d helped him enough times with his work to deserve a little regard. It wasn’t as though she wouldn’t understand technical information or be indiscreet. Maybe he thought he was helping Sherlock by getting rid of her. Jim’s chiaroscuro face came back to her. Boring, sad Molly Hooper. Perhaps everyone thought that when she stood next to Sherlock Holmes.   
Sherlock glared at Greg. “We’re on our way home. Could it wait?”

“I ‘spose,” Greg said. He arched an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yes--and you were rude to Dr. Hooper. You interrupted our discussion and dismissed her like a child. That’s poor treatment of a colleague.”

Greg’s mouth gaped and he scratched his forehead. “I’m sorry Molly. Never thought I’d be called rude by Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Everyone has a low point,” Sherlock said, over-enunciating the p in point. 

Greg looked at Molly to ease some of the awkwardness, to apologize for Sherlock and make it okay. She couldn’t. It literally felt exhausting just to nod at him and say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
Sherlock put his hand on her waist, and ushered her past Greg. They went through the swinging doors and out the back. It was freezing cold outside. She shivered and he put his warm arm around her. 

“Molly, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize for him. He knows better.” She cleaved closer to him as they walked down the dark street. His wool coat scratched her cheek, but she wanted to get closer to him anyway. “Tell me more about that picture of you in the school blazer.”

“Ah,” he smiled. “I thought that would pique your interest. I was thinking this time you could be my tutor. I’ve admired you from afar, and you’ve agreed to teach me biology as a favor from your parents to mine.”

“So I go over and you’ve just turned eighteen--”

“Why so old? By then I’d already had my first heartbreak, was abusing cocaine and had framed a man for murder.” 

“I feel funny imagining you younger than that--”

“I’m the same size now as I was at sixteen--”

“You’re joking.”

“Didn’t you see the photo? You can’t ignore the evidence.”

“You couldn’t have had your voice then.” She smiled at him, slightly awed. 

“I did. It cracked when I was thirteen. I asked Mycroft to pass me some butter at the breakfast table. He laughed so hard I refused to speak aloud until it was finished changing.”

“How did you accomplish that?” They reached the cab stand, and she looked down the street.

“A combination of sign language and terse post-its.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am.” 

“Can’t you pretend you’re sixteen and let me pretend you’re eighteen? I promise it won’t make a difference,” Molly lifted her hand to flag an approaching cab.  
He chuckled. A cab stopped and they got inside.

***

Sherlock had spent the afternoon cleaning his flat, leaving a lemony polish all over the floors and a dust free sheen on the other surfaces. He’d also made a simple meal for them to share. It was his first attempt at food preparation, so he’d made salad. It seemed less fraught than applying heat to anything.  
Molly seemed pleased when she looked around, especially about the flowers he’d placed on the kitchen table--white roses and blue salvia. She went to the table and bent to them, smelling the blossoms.

“These are my favorite.” She touched the rose petals. 

He knew that, it’s why he bought them, but he realized it was meant as a compliment. Sherlock spanned her waist with his hands. He kissed her ear, and then her neck. She turned in his arms and kissed his cheek. 

“Tell me more about your fantasy.” Her eyes were bright.

He smoothed her hair back. It was silky and soft. “You come up to my bedroom to help me study biology.” He told her the rest and her pretty, brown eyes got bigger.

“That’s very naughty.” She covered her mouth with her fingertips, tittering.

“Will you do it?”

“After dinner.”

***

Molly walked into the bedroom. Sherlock sat with his back to her on the bed wearing his school blazer over his black pants and white shirt. He even wore a striped necktie, loosely tied around his neck. His curls fell over his eye, boyishly. There were papers spread out in front of him and a copy of Gray’s Anatomy. He looked up at her, raising his eyebrow.

“Oh, you.” 

She walked over to him, swaying her hips a little so her black, pleated skirt would swing. “If you won’t be civil to me, I’ll leave, and then you’ll never pass your anatomy exam.”  
He rolled his eyes. She sat next to him on the bed, and he moved away from her and placed the open book on his lap. “You’re only here as a favor to my parents.”

“That’s not true.” She moved closer to him and tried to snag the book. “What chapter are we on? Bones of the foot? Musculature?”

He mumbled something, the tips of his ears turning pink. Molly couldn’t believe how deeply he could get into character, and it made her smile.

“I didn’t catch that. Say again.”

“Human reproduction!” He turned his back to her.

“Well, it’s good to know that before you even start having sex.”

“How do you know I haven’t had sex? I’ve had loads. That’s not...that’s not what I meant.” He hunched over the textbook. Molly put her hand on his bowed back. She could feel how hot his skin was   
through the material of the shirt, and see the fine layer of sweat on the back of his neck. 

“Well, I was just going by myself. I’ve never done anything like that.” 

He looked at her over his shoulder. “But you’re so pretty, and you’re older.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Of course I do. You’re beautiful.”

That line caught her off guard, for the catch in his voice. Also, he’d never told her she was beautiful before. 

“I’m shy around people I don’t know.”

“I’m shy, too. But I get so angry at people when they’re stupid that you’d never know.” 

She giggled. “I’ve never actually seen a naked man who was still alive.” 

“I’ve never actually seen a naked woman who wasn’t on the internet.” 

“But the loads of sex--that was so convincing.” She giggled more.

“Please don’t make fun of me. I like you.” 

She hugged him around the waist, even though he still faced away from her. “I like you, too.” 

“Can I look at you? Naked I mean.” 

“Only if I can look at you. And you can’t touch me, just look.”

“Why can’t I touch you? You can touch me.”

“Because I don’t trust you yet. Show me I can, and maybe I’ll let you later on, Sherlock.”

“No, you would’ve called me Will then.” He turned around completely and looked at her.

“Sorry.” She stood up. “Strip for me, Will.”

He stood up, and she couldn’t help noticing how much taller he was than her. Slowly, he took off the school blazer and then dropped it on the floor. The sound of it landing was uncommonly loud. Even though she’d seen him naked before, she realized she was holding her breath, just like she would’ve done if she was seeing it for the first time. He started to unloop his tie.

“No,” she put her hands on top of his.”Leave that on.” 

He inhaled sharply and nodded.

She started undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“Eager, Molly?”

“You have no idea.”

He slid the white shirt down his shoulders. She smoothed her fingertips over his chest and kissed along his collarbone. His hands were poised near her shoulders, floating above. She licked his nipple and then blew on it until it got hard. He made all sorts of delicious whimpers. His trousers came down, and she could see he had on boxer briefs. His cock bulged against the tight material.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.

“Why?”

“It’s been like that since you walked in.”

She rubbed his erection through the fabric. “Can I see it? I’ve never seen one hard before.”

He took down his briefs for her, and his penis bounced like a springboard. She took him in hand, and gave him a stroke. He shuddered for her.

“Lie on the bed,” she commanded.

“Undress first, then I will. I need to see you.” 

She gave him a half smile and let go of his erection. Her hands went to her top button, and his eyes followed. Molly took her shirt off as fast as she could. With a quick pop behind her back, she’d taken off the bra. He reached for the zipper on her skirt, and she swatted his hands away.

“Don’t touch. Just look.”

“I didn’t mean to.” He looked positively terrified that she’d stop, with both hands held up like she’d just drawn a gun. It was almost funny how real he could be. It would have been incredible if he wanted her that much, really. Slowly, she undid the zip and let the skirt drop. She had on black knickers with tartan bows at the hips. She’d thought them just a bit campy, but the look on his face said he liked them. 

“I won’t touch you, but could you spread your legs apart. Could I see you that way?” 

“If I feel a single finger, it’s done.” She wagged her own finger at him. “I’ll scream and your parents will come running.” 

“I promise, on my life, Molly. I won’t touch you.”  
She scooched out of her panties and laid down on the bed, her knees bent like a tent. He sat on the edge at her feet, looking down at her. Under his gaze, she started to soften her position, letting her knees open. She spread them further and he leaned in close to look. 

“You’re shiny and wet. Does that mean you like me looking at you?” 

“Yes.”

“Your body is perfect, just like I imagined it would be.” 

She cupped her breast and pinched the nipple until it was hard and red. 

He gasped, his lower lip opening, as though he wanted to take her nipple in his mouth. 

“Do you imagine me a lot?” She opened her legs even further.

“Every night. I think about the curve of your neck when you bend over your microscope and the way your nose wrinkles when you really smile. I think of other things I don’t want to say.” 

“I think of you, too.” She slid her hand between her legs and started teasing open the folds with her fingers. 

“Please Molly, can I touch you?” He put his hands on the bed on either side of her hips without actually touching them. She snapped her legs shut.

“No. Stand up.” 

He jumped off the bed and stood at a distance. She got up and began gathering her clothes.

“That’s all then?” 

She looped her bra on and hooked it with one hand then tugged on her knickers. He moved to pick up his shirt.

“No. You lie down and wait. I need to think,” she said. 

He scrambled to lie down. She finished dressing, then surveyed him. His skin was flushed; the muscles in his legs and arms were tense. He’d put his feet far apart and hands above his head, gripped at the wrist. His cock stood hard, waiting for her. Molly sat down on the bed between his legs. She ran her hands down his sides.

“Can I put it in my mouth?”

“Really? I didn’t think girls liked that.”

“I want to try.” She bent down to him, tentatively kissing the head. She swirled her tongue around. “I didn’t know it tasted like that.”

“Do you like it, or is it bad?”

“I like it.”

She swallowed as deep as she could, and stopped playing pretend. They’d been teasing for almost a month; she felt the only humane thing would be to alleviate some of his misery. Besides, she’d missed giving him pleasure, and missed the way he felt on her tongue. He came with a roar, spurting in her mouth. She finished swallowing and then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She stretched out next to him. Molly toyed with his striped necktie, then wrapped the fat silk part around her hand, like a leash. She pulled him close to her and kissed him, nibbling gently on his lower lip. 

“Go down on me.” She gripped the tie just a little tighter. “I can’t wait any more.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to touch you.”

“Be Sherlock, not Will. I just want you.”

His demeanor changed and he undid her skirt with a deft movement. He whisked it down her legs, along with her knickers. He crawled down her body and she clamped her thighs around his head. He licked her overheated labia and then sucked her clitoris in his mouth. He built her up and then teased her, over and over again. She came so hard, she almost knocked him off the bed. It was only after coming down, the meteor shower sparkling through her body, that she felt a pain in the middle of her back. Molly felt around and found she’d been lying on a copy of Gray’s Anatomy. She would have told him so they could share a laugh, but he had fallen asleep with his head on her stomach.


	14. Chapter 14

TWO WEEKS LATER  
Sherlock lied down on Ginger’s couch and stared at the ceiling, his hands steepled under his chin. Her pen scratched against her pad. The soothing earth tones were not doing their job. He felt anxious, and things didn’t go well when he felt that way.

“How was this week? You seem agitated. ” Ginger’s pen stopped.

Sherlock sighed. “I think this experiment with Molly is over.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night something happened.”

The clock ticked and he knew Ginger was waiting for him to go on with his explanation. He’d learned that she would wait for him to speak without prodding, which probably saved her a great deal of time in the long run. For instance, he realized he’d wasted their entire first session by stubbornly refusing to speak, yet still had to pay for the privilege. The next time they met, he got to the point.

“I told Molly that I loved her, and she said it was too soon.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Four months. Although, part of that time I insisted we weren’t in a relationship. That means, maybe half that time, but I’ve known her for years.”

“What was the context?” 

“We were role-playing as the teen-aged characters. Afterward, she said they were making her uncomfortable, but Will is me. She rejected him, which means she doesn’t really want me.” 

“Did you tell her in the moment how her words made you feel?”

“No.”

“Did her behavior change toward you afterward? Was she cold?”

“Of course not. She’s just as sweet as before. Sweeter. The day after, she baked my favorite chocolate biscuits with the sultanas and brought them to Baker Street. She made me a scarf.”

“That doesn’t sound like she’s rejecting you.”

“Or she’s twisting the knife.” He closed his eyes and struggled to slow his thoughts down so he could pluck the words from the whir. 

Ginger stopped writing. “Do you think you’re looking for reasons to end the relationship because you feel overwhelmed?”

“I am overwhelmed. She’s moved out of Baker Street and she’s living in her old flat now. I can see she despises it--she doesn’t sleep but she’d rather be in misery than stay with me. When she’s not there, she’s with Meena. I can’t stay with her when she’s at Meena’s because it could upset Aisha, and at her flat she insists on staying alone.”

“Are you seeing her at all?”

“I take her home from work when I’m not on a case. We have dinner or sex. Then she leaves afterward. I hate it when she leaves .”

“Have you told her?”

“She knows.”

“I know it’s difficult, but try to understand why she’d want to protect herself and retain autonomy, especially given the fact that she was violated by someone she trusted.”

“Noted.” 

“Aside from that, Sherlock, you’ve rapidly changed your terms in this relationship.”

“I know that.”

“I think you need to state your intentions and confirm hers. Your assignment this week is to try to understand your partner better. You need to figure out why she said what she said and go from there.”

“Noted.”

“Sherlock, you know if you need to call me, I’m here.” Ginger’s voice got softer.

“Noted,” he said quietly.

***

Molly woke up and saw the bedside clock read ten of five in the morning. She’d had another bad dream. Moriarty had her by the hair and dragged her into a forest. The path was paved in shiny, blue, wrapped sweets. Her nightmares of him were not as bad as her dreams of him, when he’d be Jim from IT and talk with her like a normal person.   
Her sleep trouble and nightmares were always worse at Meena’s house. She’d woken three times since putting Aisha to bed.   
Molly slid out of the guest bed, and went to the kitchen. At the marble island next to the metal fridge sat Aisha, eating a bowl of rainbow-colored cereal. Molly knew why her friend--an emergency room doctor--would buy terribly unhealthy food like that. Since her mother’s death, Meena had been spoiling her sister just a bit.   
The little girl started when she saw Molly.

“What are you doing up?” Molly went over to Aisha. She smoothed the girl’s long, black hair. Aisha wore a pair of pajamas that had been Molly’s up until two weeks ago--they had thermal, pink bottoms and a Unicorn on the top. Molly had gone through her old clothes and gotten rid of the most childish pieces.

“Bad dream.”

“Me too.” Molly put the cereal box away in the cabinet. She’d always liked their kitchen, with its cinnamon colored walls and deep red tiles. “What was yours about?” Molly sat next to Aisha on one of the stools.

Aisha hit her spoon against the bowl. “I like that sound. It’s like a bell.” She hit the bowl with the spoon again and smiled. “It was that one where I got lost at the pool and I couldn’t find mum, and there were doors that I had to go through but she wasn’t behind them.”

“I’m sorry. That’s really scary.”

“Did you have that same dream, too?”

“No, it wasn’t about your mum. I was getting taken to a gingerbread house.”

“Were there witches?”

“No.”

“Witches would have made it kind of good.”

Molly smiled and wrinkled her nose. “You think?”

Aisha shrugged, her hand held up like she was holding a platter. “I don’t know, I just really like witches.” 

Molly thought her conversations with Aisha were a lot like her conversations with Sherlock. There were often unexpected left turns.  
Aisha lifted the bowl up and drank the rainbow-colored milk. When she finished, she slid off of the stool and put the bowl in the sink. Molly checked her phone to see if she had another text from Sherlock. When she’d gone to sleep at one, he’d texted that his case had concluded and he’d asked if she was at her flat. She’d told him he was at Meena’s and then he’d dropped off, so she supposed he’d been flushed with success and wanted sex. His lack of response confirmed her suspicions.

“Do you think you’ll have babies and get married?” Aisha asked.

“If I had babies, I wouldn’t be able to take care of you, would I?”

“I don’t know, maybe you would.”

“There are a lot of children in my life, and I wouldn’t be able to be a good auntie to them if I had my own baby to care for.”

“Doesn’t your boyfriend want to get married? He kisses you a lot. All the time actually.”

“Is that gross?” Molly asked.

“It’s kind of interesting. I don’t know.”

“I don’t know if I do any more.”

“If you do get married, I want to be a bridesmaid. I’m too old to be a flower girl.”

“Of course.”

***

Molly waited with Aisha at the bus stop. The little girl had had a rough night, but Molly made sure her hair was in two neat braids and her uniform was spotless. Somehow that made all the difference in people thinking a child was just fine. They gathered with the other parents and children. None of the grown ups talked to Molly, but kept together in their small group, huddled in their scarves and hats because of the chilly day. The kids were much the same. Aisha talked to a little red-haired boy about a video game. She’d tried to explain it to Molly once, but none of the details stuck. Aisha stopped talking and squinted against the sun.

“Your boyfriend is across the street,” Aisha pointed.

Sherlock stood on the opposite sidewalk, looking distracted. Molly had no idea when he’d shown up. They were on a cul-de-sac, but somehow he’d appeared without warning. She wondered if all of London had secret exits and passageways like the Belgravia house. Molly waved at him and he nodded, then walked over, nearly getting struck by the school bus. She’d never seen him like that before--except when he was high. Fear pooled in her stomach.

“Bye Molly, see you!” Aisha waved frantically at Molly and then got on the bus. The other kids got kisses and hugs before heading off. The bus pulled away, leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the road. Swiftly, he walked to her, his dark coat flapping. Some of the other parents noticed him. At least one woman recognized him because she loudly whispered to her friend, “Is that the detective with the odd name?” The whispering woman’s friend shrugged. The little band of grown ups dispersed, walking back to their own houses.  
Sherlock approached Molly. He had shadows under his eyes and he hadn’t shaved, but he didn’t have the jittery energy he got when he was high on coke. He also didn’t seem overly sleepy, like he did on opiates. All he seemed was terribly, preternaturally still, which was how he got when he was nervous. 

“Molly. May I buy you breakfast?” He put his hand on her elbow and cupped it gently.

“Sure, let me lock up first.” She tilted her head toward Meena’s house. 

They went back to Meena’s brick row house and she locked the front door. Sherlock stood behind her on the front step, his back to hers.

“You grew up across the street there?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Yeah.”

“I wish we could go inside.”

“Oh, me too. The owners wouldn’t be keen on you shagging me in my old room, though. The Mrs. does her quilting in there.” 

He didn’t acknowledge her sarcasm.

“I didn’t mean for that. I just wanted to see what it was like for you. You said we grew up differently.”

Molly turned around and took his arm, curious. “Meena’s house is the same set up inside, if you want to look around.”

“I would.” 

Molly unlocked the door and he followed her to the entryway. He looked around at the brown walls, the deep red couches and the abundance of green plants.

“You spent a lot of time here, then. Learned to cook.” He poked his head in the kitchen.

“It looked different when I was little. A lot of yellow appliances. Meena’s mother redid it when she got remarried, right before Aisha was born.”

“Huh. Show me the bedroom.”

“Sherlock, I really don’t want to have it off in Meena’s house. She’ll be home any minute.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“You texted me at one in the morning to come over. That usually means one thing.”

“It means I can’t sleep when you’re not there. You did that to me, Molly.” He clenched his fists. “Fine, let’s get this over with.” He seemed to be checking things off in his head, almost like he was in the middle of a deduction. She didn’t like when he got into that mode with her. It usually ended in her feeling publicly eviscerated. “You grew up here, and as a girl you were happy. Your father owned a chip shop and your mother was a plastic surgeon, so he was the one you spent all your time with because of her demanding job. Meena’s mother was a homemaker, and she picked up the slack between them.   
Is that right?”

“That’s right.” She fidgeted a hair back behind her ear.

“This was your second home and Meena the sister you never had. It was idyllic. A wonderful childhood, by any standard, but gilded by the disaster that befell you at aged 13. Your mother left your father and moved to Los Angeles because she could make a great deal of money, three times as much there, as she could here. She’s an excellent surgeon, a brilliant beauty and your father was ordinary. He couldn’t keep up with her.”

“Sherlock.” Her throat felt tight. He didn’t care about her stricken expression. He was on a roll.

“That abandonment when you were 13, just becoming a woman, led you to withdraw and feel less than. She didn’t come to his funeral, but she did send the biggest flower arrangement. She still sends you expensive gifts from the States, out of guilt rather than interest. You reject them--hand off the designer accessories to Meena and the clothes to your cousin Opal. You send thank you notes for the gifts anyway. ”

Molly listened to him, frozen in place, her hands shoved in the pocket of her cardigan sweater. She’d never told him any of those things, but they were all true. She’d filled out the thank you note in front of him once, before they were together, and he’d met Opal when she happened to be wearing a Gucci dress she’d never have been able to afford on a store clerk’s salary. He must have deduced her and never said before. She wondered what had happened, why he’d saved it and why he’d pummeled her with it all at that moment.   
He moved a step closer to her, but otherwise he was cold and still, a predator mesmerizing her before the pounce. 

“You never accept the presents because you tell yourself you’re not good enough, or pretty enough but the truth is she hurt you. She destroyed your father and ended your happy home. So your rebellion is utterly unnoticed, but you rebel anyway, and you only hurt yourself.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because I’m like that dress sent by your mother that you don’t want to wear. You stopped loving me, or you love me but you wish you didn’t. But you’re not the sort to provoke a confrontation.”

“Y-you think I stopped loving you?” 

“I told you I loved you and you said it was too soon. That came from somewhere.”

“We were playing--I didn’t think you meant it.”

“That’s your cover.”

She leaned against the wall. “I didn’t think you were serious.” Molly hesitated. She hadn’t thought he meant it at all. She thought it turned him on to follow the script set out by so many Bildungsroman stories and declare his love. She let his words sink in, though. Observant as he was, there was always something to them. “Honestly, it felt good to have power over my feelings for once.”

“And power over me.”

“Which you gave me.”

He pursed his lips. “That’s not how I want to be hurt.”

“This is stupid. You know I love you, I have for so long. But you don’t.”

He sighed and fixed her with his light eyes, looking absolutely weary.

“I love you, Molly. I have loved you.”

“I never thought you’d say that.” She succumbed to her tears; she couldn’t stop herself. 

He didn’t move. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

She faced the brown wall with the textured plaster. Staring at it made her feel like a child who’d done something terrible and been put in a corner. Just like then, she couldn’t hold back her sobs, which added to her embarrassment. 

“Molly, please don’t.” He put his hands on her shoulders.

“I used to get a stomach ache when you were near me. It got worse after that Christmas, went from fluttery nerves to a lead weight. I kept trying to get it under control. You were so careless with me and I don’t know why I kept falling into it over and over. Do you know what it was like to have your body under mine for the first time? To have you in chains? I thought a little of the poison would cure me, but   
it’s worse now. I know you, now. You’ve been inside me. Do you know what it’s like to ache for another person like this?”

“Yes.”

“Is that how you love me? Because I can’t settle for anything less--not with you.”

“Yes.” He kissed her hair. His warm hands moved down her arms. 

She leaned against him, sniffling. “Tell me then.”

“If I lose you, I won’t be with anyone else. You know that. The first time, I wasn’t looking for a stranger. I wanted you. It never would have happened with someone else.” He kissed her temple, and then her cheek. “I am yours, even if you stop wanting me--I am still yours. I will always be. If you leave me and marry and have children with another man, I am still yours. At your word, I’m naked at your feet. If you don’t want a lover, I’ll be your tool. I’ll be your friend or your enforcer. Whatever you want. I just want you to keep me, Molly.” 

She turned around in his arms. He kissed her and she forgot about everything else. They backed up to the wall and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He ground against her and Aisha’s school picture started to fall. He caught it without dropping Molly.

“That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.

Keys rattled in the lock and someone opened the front door. Molly immediately put her feet on the floor and they moved apart. Sherlock still held the picture in his hand.   
Meena walked in looking tired. She had on a vivid, purple coat and her black hair was pinned up in a neat chignon. 

“Hi, how was work?” Molly asked, a little too cheerfully.

Meena cocked her head. “Good. Normal. What are you doing with my sister’s picture, Sherlock?”

“Admiring it?”

“Okay. Molly, could you join me in the kitchen? I need to speak to you in private before you go.”

Molly glanced apologetically at Sherlock. He set the picture down on the end table and then clasped his hands behind his back. Meena led her into the entryway, easing her coat off as she went. She had on a black pantsuit underneath.

Molly stood nervously at her friend’s elbow. “He didn’t stay the night, you know I wouldn’t do that. He just came for breakfast.”

Meena arched her eyebrow. “I know exactly what you’d do. I used to help you do it.”

“That was a long time ago. Ask Aisha. She was up half the night with bad dreams.” 

Meena seemed to deflate. “The pool dream.”

“Yeah.”

“I believe you.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Molly asked.

“I need you to babysit tomorrow, if you can manage.”

“I can babysit." 

Meena looked over her face. “You've been crying. Were you two fighting?”

“No. It wasn’t that kind of crying.”

Meena gave Molly a hug. “You smell like his cologne. This was sexy crying?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when he’s not listening in the other room.” Molly smiled at Meena.

Sherlock took that moment to pop into the hall and clear his throat. Meena let Molly go and gave her a conspiratorial smile. They said their goodbyes and she left with Sherlock. When they got outside, he took her hand. He’d never done that before.

“Where would you like to go for breakfast?” he asked.

“I’d like to go to your bedroom and not leave until supper time.” 

He smiled and kissed her hand.


	15. EIGHT MONTHS LATER-LAST CHAPTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think your knickers may have caused an international incident.

Eight months later

Sherlock had insisted all her boxes should be unpacked before he gave her some "housewarming” gifts. 

Molly hadn't wanted to accept the first gift, but after they discussed it, she came round. Since the coat was vintage and the little minks that had died to make it had done so almost eighty years ago, she could stand to put it on. One of her stipulations was to never wear it outside. He told her he was glad about that--he wanted to be the only one to see her that way. 

At least the fur coat was easy to put on. He’d bought her some gorgeous leather boots that looked like they needed a team to lace them, and a black corset that also required assistance to wear properly. She genuinely liked the boots, and threatened to wear them out to her drinks night with Meena, while he stayed home and sat Aisha. The color had drained from his face.

“Please don’t, Molly. Every man who passes you will stare.”

“Maybe I’d like that.” 

“But Molly--”

“No more lip, darling, or I’ll have to punish you for all that back talk.” 

He’d stopped arguing after that, and Molly wore them out to the bar before she wore them for him as a punishment for even suggesting she couldn’t. Making him lace them before she left had been the most pleasant torture. Walking in them two blocks had been the most unpleasant torture, but she refused to tell him that she’d changed into flats when she got round the block. He deduced it, of course, but did her the courtesy of pretending to be jealous. 

This time, Molly managed to get the boots on by herself, but the corset would not cooperate. Finally, she gave up and poked her head out the door.

“Sherlock--I hate to ask you this, but could you lace me up?”  
He leapt from his chair and walked over to her in a virtual blur, wearing nothing but his dressing gown. Sherlock got in the bathroom with her.

“You say that like it’s a chore. I’ve been fantasizing about doing that since I bought the bloody thing.”

“Well, okay.” She looked down, embarrassed, then gathered herself. “Watch your tone.”

He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “I”m sorry, Molly. I’m just excited.”

She turned around so he could thread the string through. Slowly, he smoothed her hair to the side. He traced the curve of her neck with his fingers and then kissed her shoulders reverently. Each pass of his hand, tightening the string, sent a thrill through her. He was so quick and skilled, it took a fraction of the time she’d been struggling alone.

“How tight do you want it?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you when to stop.”

She took in a breath and he pulled the strings taut. 

“Stop, there’s good.” The corset didn’t constrict her breathing, but she could feel it digging into the skin just a little. 

He tied the laces and then combed her hair back. 

“May I give you your present?” He kissed the top of her head.

“I thought the outfit was my present.” She smirked.

“No, that was mine.”

“Yes, go get it.”

He didn’t move from where he stood behind her. Instead, he took a choker style necklace encrusted with rubies and diamonds out of his dressing gown pocket. Molly gasped. It looked like it should have been behind a case at the Tower of London.

“I’m sorry it isn’t wrapped.”

“I couldn’t care less about that. Is it real?”

“Very. It’s worth the bride price of a queen, quite literally. The necklace was originally a gift from the Viceroy of India to his fiancee.”

“How did you get it?”

“I told you, that case I solved. There was a great deal of money involved, and I thought this would look pretty on you. Do you like it?”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“May I put it on you?”

“Yes.”

“Turn, go look in the mirror,” he said. 

She moved around in the bathroom until they were facing the mirror over the sink. She watched the reflection of him draping the necklace around her neck. The metal felt warm against her skin, and she supposed he’d been holding it in his hand, sitting by the fire and waiting for her to be ready. He kissed her cheek and then rested his head in the crook of her shoulder. He looked utterly content.

“Where can I wear this?” She touched the smooth, faceted jewels.

“In bed with me. To the Bart’s Christmas party next week. I want to see Mike’s face when you show up with that on and me next to you.”

“Mike is not interested in me.”

“Molly, I tend to notice these things.”

“I think I’ve heard you say that once or twice.” 

She moved to face him, and their mouths met. His touch got rough as they kissed, and he nearly tore the stiff fabric of the corset he’d just meticulously laced. Molly broke away.

“Stop, stop or we won’t get to the part you like.”

“I like every part.” 

“The fancy bit, with the coat and the slapping. Shoo,” she said, waving him away while he stifled his grin. “I’ve got to freshen up my makeup.”

He left, his head down, appropriately chastened. She liked the fancy part, too, and it wouldn’t do for her to finish in two minutes after she’d spent a half hour lacing up her boots. Molly touched up her lipstick. She let him wait another minute or two before she put on the fur and went out.  
Molly came into the bedroom. She opened the coat, exposing her pale, round breasts. Her hair fell around her shoulders and her lipstick was a shocking red. She felt beautiful.

He stood naked, his hands clasped behind his back. His cock was already hard.

“May I touch you?” He didn’t move.

She stood in front of him and brushed his cheek with the end of the riding crop.

“No, I don’t think so.” She slid the leather tip of the crop along his cheekbones, and down his shoulder, then pressed. “On your knees, my darling.” 

He knelt before her, his head on level with her chest. She took her breasts in her own hands. “Don’t touch, just lick.”  
He suckled at her breasts, his tongue teasing her. She pulled away, and dragged the fur across his face. His eyes shut and looked like he was in rhapsody. She put the other breast to his lips. They got red when he sucked, and they were already full. Molly let him go longer than she’d planned, because his mouth felt like heaven. His hair got mussed and his eyes looked starry and dazed.  
The coat was so warm, it had begun to make her sweat, and her perfume smelled strongly of musk. Covered in fallen creatures, like some sort of death goddess, she felt positively feral. 

“Go lie down on the bed, on your stomach.”

“Can I kiss your lips?”

“If you’re good.”

He went to the bed and laid on his stomach, his hands gripping the headboard--her headboard. They’d decided on hers, because of the metal bars. He tipped his hips up, presenting the round curve of his ass for her wrath. Molly sauntered over to the bed, enjoying the rap of her heels against the floor. She struck him hard across his ass with the crop, and he cried out, his body trembling. Molly traced a lazy line up his spine with the riding crop.

“How many do you think you deserve?” she asked.

“More.”

“That’s the right answer.”

She loved making the red marks rise on his pale skin. It was like scrawling her initials across a masterpiece, defiling someone so beautiful. Her blows landed over and over again. He moaned with each strike. When she finished his ass was burning red.  
She went over to him and blew on his chafed skin. He groaned and his fists tightened on the bars. 

“So sensitive, darling.” She tapped his shoulders. “Turn over.”

He complied with her. His stomach was tight and his cock was so swollen it looked painful. She hit each of his nipples with the crop. His body jumped like water on a hot griddle. 

“Are you ready for the nipple clamps?”

“Yes, Molly.” 

She reached into the drawer of his bedside table, and took out two clamps connected by a chain. They opened like clothespins. She bent over him and licked his nipple until it peaked and then adjusted the clamp on it. He bit his lip and his eyes rolled back. She did the other side the same way, dragging her tongue around the areola first and then replacing her soft mouth with the unforgiving bit of rubber and metal.

“Lovely.” She tugged the chain and he tried to stay still. She slapped his chest with an open palm, and he screamed her name. Molly kept plucking at the chain and slapping his trapped nipples with the crop.

“Please let me taste you,” he begged. 

“You think you’re ready?”

“Please.”

She took the clamps off delicately, so she wouldn’t tear his skin, and set them aside. Then she kissed his sore nipples. She kissed her way along his chest and his throat, then finally his mouth. When she pulled away, they were both panting.

“Are you ready to please me?”

“Yes, Molly.”

She took off the coat and draped it, fur side down, across his waist. Her body shimmered with sweat, and it felt good to get the hot thing off of her. Carefully, she knelt on the bed, near his head. Minding not to concuss him with her boots, she straddled his face. She ground her labia against his mouth. His tongue came alive and he held her down on top of him. The coat had a gold satin lining, and his erection bulged beneath it. She moved her hand over the bulge and gripped him, stroking the material against him.  
They came at the same time, bodies pressed together. When they finally untangled, she moved off of the bed so she could take the boots off. Through his endorphin haze, he looked at her and smiled.

“Let me help you.” Sherlock clambered off the bed and knelt before her. With his deft fingers, he began to loosen the laces. He looked up at her, smile gone and his eyes solemn. “Molly, there’s something I never told you.”

“What is it?” She ran her fingers through his hair. He gave her inner thigh a quick peck.

“I took your knickers that first time in Belgravia.”

“Why?” She smothered a laugh.

“The Belgravia house is where Mycroft has been meeting his mistress for the past two years. I hid them in the corner of the sheets to get him in trouble.”

“That is absolutely wicked!” Molly gasped.

“It gets worse. I think your knickers may have caused an international incident. His mistress is high up in the Spanish government and when she found them, apparently, she levied a high tax on gin exports. It’s had a deleterious impact on the GDP.” 

“Are you serious?” Molly covered her mouth with her hand.

“Quite.” Sherlock couldn’t help the smile from overtaking his face. “In fact, several times I’ve nearly sent him a case of gin with a note of consolation, but his confusion at not knowing who left the pants is far too funny.” 

“If I’d known all that, I would have bought new.” 

He laughed.

***

Since Molly moved in, everything had gotten very interesting. 

For someone who asked very little, at times she needed a great deal from him. To his eternal shock, he enjoyed being needed by Molly Hooper.  
Most nights, she slept peacefully next to him, with the occasional giggle in her sleep, but sometimes she still had nightmares. He’d find her cleaning the kitchen with a fine brush, or scrubbing the bathroom floor and listening to the small device with the music in it, whose name he couldn’t ever bother to learn. Then he’d have to let her finish up while he made her tea and toast. She’d sit with him by the fireplace and tell him the details of the nightmare. Nearly always it was about Moriarty. She said the ones where he was sweet, acting like Jim from IT, were the worst. Talking always seemed to help her on those nights, and she’d fall asleep on his lap, while he sat in his chair. Ginger told him his handling of these incidents was appropriate and healing; her praise gave him more pleasure than he liked to admit.

Aside from her trauma, she needed other things from him that he was exceedingly pleased to give. The little kindnesses meant everything to her. When he brought her coffee or agreed to sit next to her while she watched a film, it would make her incredibly happy. He’d never thought making someone else happy could hold any meaning before, but with Molly, each success fueled need for another.  
He still had restless nights himself, like the one that made him bow to her the first time. On nights when he required violence, his mind would unspool too quickly, like old-fashioned film going off the reels of a projector and threatening to catch on fire. On those nights, Molly would quell his urges with her firm, steady hand. She always knew what he needed. In her quest to satisfy him, she’d even gotten quite good with knots. 

With Molly everything was very interesting. Very interesting indeed.


End file.
